"I told the others it was better this way." Summoning up a Herculean effort not to shed another tear, J.J. crossed her arms and focused on interpreting the play of expression over his face. He seemed impassive, patiently waiting for her meaning to shift into something communicable. Or he would have to most people, anyway. J.J. could outline the traces of sympathy, not diminished, but retracted... because she knew what it looked like on him. As surely as she could identify a suit of Hotch's if she saw it anywhere in the world, she could find each fleeting spark of emotion that he allowed himself, although more often than not, interpreting them was a job for Aladdin and his lamp. Now, though...

She'd gotten to him, that much was clear. And she could see looming alongside the things he was feeling on her behalf a poisonous, cringing empathy all his own that spelled out in piercing detail just how much this whole encounter was costing him. She sniffled a little to buy herself some more time to think.

With Gideon around, it was far too easy to overlook Hotch's sensibilities. Gideon took things so hard. Hotch had to hold it together, or he and Gideon could never work in tandem like this, much less sustain the close personal friendship that was so unbreakable it tended to give the illusion that the same was true of the two of them. Far from the truth... Gideon's nearly bipolar tendencies and Hotch's efficiently regulated temperament could be equally destructive; but it was dawning on J.J. in her overwhelmingly receptive vulnerability that the latter was a reaction, a mold Hotch constructed around his friend's personality to contain both their sanities. It wasn't only a learned state of defensive readiness; it was a deliberate shield between them and the inhuman atrocities to which they bore unrelenting witness.

And that was his reasoning behind this surreal little pow-wow. J.J. reined herself in with a vengeance as the ridiculous urge to throw her arms around his neck raced through her. He could have granted her leave and sent her off to pack. He could have accepted her evident reluctance to share any emotions with him of which she was ashamed. But he hadn't; he'd just held on. He hadn't forced her into weakness; he'd turned her to face the mirror in safety, where she'd have him to tell her what was real and what was nothing but smoky, nightmarish shadow.

He looked faintly amused by her stumbling scrutiny, but that too was instantly submerged. Was a sense of humor that just sat gathering dust the same as a non-existent one? 'Stop analyzing Hotch,' she scolded herself. She needed to focus—on buoying herself, on letting him boost her into the fresh air after her plunge to the icy bottom. Just like Gideon.

Bringing her thoughts back in line was unpleasant in the extreme, but it was feasible, and she fought the need to flee as she gathered her words together. "Morgan, Reid, Prentiss... I thought I only said those things about my mother because I was trying to get away, but they're true. And they're not. She didn't want to die; her heart condition was constantly hanging over her head, but she wasn't in pain. But when my aunt said she was gone... the first thing I thought was that that time bomb had finally gone off, and for half a second, I felt... relieved." J.J. kept her head down, because the tears were on the move no matter what, and she wanted to say it all. "It wasn't better for her; it was better for me. Not having to dread listening to my voicemail after every case. I haven't been home more than twice in the last five years... not once since I started this job... because I've been afraid of being there when she... having to watch..."

"J.J." Hotch's voice was soft and knowing. "No matter how good you are at this job, and no matter how many times you think you've seen it all only to realize you're not even close... it never gets easier to watch someone you love slip away from you."

"But now I wish I'd been there," she gasped. "She deserved that from me... She was the one I called after – after Georgia... She was obviously horrified and sick, but she never once made it about her, not even when I told her how close it really was, back in the barn." J.J.'s eyes fell back to the carpet. She hadn't planned on saying that. The others basically knew what had happened at Tobias' farm, and she knew they were about as interested in hearing the horrific details as she was in reliving them. Then again... Hotch's indrawn breath, and the way his hand slid up her shoulder so that his thumb was resting at the base of her throat, made her think twice about having left something out.

"How close, J.J.?" No lies. No more hiding.

"Half an inch," she whispered. "They all charged at once, and I just wasn't fast enough. The last one reached me. It jumped. Its claws got my arm, but its teeth"—she touched her index finger against the joint of his thumb, just above her clavicle—"grazed me there. It was dark, I couldn't see anything, and I could feel its breath on my face... it smelled... like its last meal... and that was when I realized I wasn't that woman. She'd been chained and alone... I thought Reid was still around there somewhere, but... anyway, I dragged my gun up under its ribs. And... I fired. And it fell on me." She took a ragged breath. The flashbacks had finally stopped a couple of weeks after the return to D.C., but now they were menacingly circling again. "I tried to push it off, but it wouldn't move. I realized I had to get its claws out of my arm first... I'd just gotten free when the barn door opened. All I saw was a bright light coming towards me... I almost shot Morgan." Hotch's eyes were looking past her now, flashing like a kaleidoscope—probably piecing together a vision of another J.J., one who hadn't managed to raise her gun in time. His grip was tightening.

"Ow," she murmured gently. He snapped his attention back to her, returning her smile with a small, sheepish one of his own. "You got Reid back," she reminded him. "I felt guilty enough as it was, but if..." He nodded his acceptance, and she sighed. Trading in absolution felt odd – it was hard not to view the rest of the team, at one time or another, as just another slice of the misery, with no power to de-claw each other's demons, and she knew the others felt it, too. And, looking at Hotch, it was impossible to truly forgive someone who would never forgive himself. Gideon, she thought, had probably tried; they'd spent hours at the hospital together, waiting to hear, one way or another. But then Lee had slithered into their lives, and when his threat had finally leaked away down an empty road, he'd taken Elle with him. And a part of Hotch, too—the part that could see past his responsibilities, the part that could just think of his team as a group of agents under his command rather than charges in his care.

And sometimes it annoyed her. They were all adults, for God's sake. Even Reid, although he often didn't seem like one. Hotch had no business blaming himself for every mistake they made, every plan that went to hell. Especially when it hadn't been his plan to begin with. Like splitting up right outside an unsub's barn. Or shooting a man in cold blood.

But she had never managed to stew in her impulses for long, and holding onto the irritation was just too difficult. For one thing, she didn't really want to, and for another, he was such an entertaining paradox that all she could muster in the long-term was amused exasperation. The mother-hen routine was very funny in a man who liked to spend most of his time pretending to be made out of marble. Especially when he tried to do—and usually succeeded in doing—both at the same time. But she wouldn't laugh at him, because he might be embarrassed enough to stop.

"You would have liked her," she said decidedly.

"Was she like you?" was Hotch's casual rejoinder.

J.J. smiled, at both the question and the subtle compliment. "Not really. She loved the small town atmosphere. She wanted to treat all her neighbors like family, and no matter what, she kept hoping to get the same treatment from them. She didn't mind change, but she wanted everything to stay familiar, personalized. To me, our town felt so claustrophobic, like I was trapped in an observation bubble; but to her it was comfortable... and safe. So I didn't call her too often, because what could I say? All I had were stories to make her afraid of her own shadow."

"But when you called her and told her about Georgia..."

"I felt so stupid, and so guilty. I had completely underestimated her. I always wanted to protect her illusions, but the only thing she needed more than her cozy life was to be a part of mine."

Hotch diplomatically ignored the tear snaking down her cheek. "And, from what you've told me about your conversation, she knew what you needed. After you'd told her what happened, and probably scared her senseless, did she even once ask you to find another job, or come home?" J.J. shook her head miserably. "She was proud of you, J.J., and she knew that the only person who can say whether or not you can do this job is you. And if the reason why you stay is ever drowned out by other considerations, you'll know what to do about it."

"Not bad, padre," she teased. Hotch blinked at the sudden levity, then smiled as he watched J.J. scrub her face dry with the heels of her hands. It was done; she'd made it. He looked every bit as relieved as she felt.

"Just two more pieces of advice," he intoned solemnly, delighting her as he played along. "Number one: if I might suggest, lady, the use of these tissues in lieu of your sleeve. And two..." He dropped the game, but before he could say another word, the door blasted open.