Thanks for the lovely reviews!

Please see disclaimers in Ch. 1.

"Dave?" a voice called out. "You all right?" It was Morgan.

Rossi continued to stare at the single photograph, of JJ lying on a tile floor much like the one he stood on, curled into a ball. There were several nasty looking gashes covering her arms and legs, and a line of red crossing her abdomen that could just be made out. The angle of the shot showed she had bruises on her face as well.

"My God," he said, mostly to himself. Words failed him.

"Dave!"

"It's okay, Morgan. Just a dream. Go back to sleep." Rossi didn't want to wake anyone else just yet, and he certainly didn't want the block warden coming back tonight as well. If the four of them proved to be a problem, he knew what could happen.

As for sleep, all thoughts of that vanished. Rossi tucked the photograph underneath his pillow, wanting to keep it as undamaged as he could. The photo itself was bad enough—it didn't need extra creases to make the poor woman's condition look worse.

His mind kept rolling over towards the little blonde, who was tougher than a box of three-penny nails and always kept a smile in her back pocket. She'd been so looking forward to finally meeting her baby…and now, it seemed, she never would…

The thought of that was too much. He'd never had kids, sure—was always working, or his ex-wives were always working, and it just never came to be. But he liked kids. The few times he saw Hotch's son always brought a smile to his face, and when children were the victims in the countless cases he'd investigated, he took it more personally—perhaps the only one who beat him out there was Morgan, who always looked like he wanted to raze skyscrapers with his bare hands when young children were an unsub's target.

Rossi thoughts turned to the cell just kitty-corner from his own. When Morgan finds out, he'll lose it, he thought. And I don't want to think what the others might do…

On the other hand, not telling them would be cruel. They cared just as much as he did.

Rossi pulled the photograph back out from under his pillow. His eyes danced over the sight of JJ, all black and blue, looking like a riot had claimed her.

In the dark, where no one could see, a seasoned man let tears fall silently down his face.

The next morning brought what had become the standard routine: lights-on, head count, breakfast, and then back to work. The agents, along with Petr, who seemed all right despite the fact they knew very little about him, continued painting down another row of empty cells.

"Must be a slow period here," Reid mused as he let his brush trail over a set of bars. "Not a lot in isolation."

"I think that's why we're painting it now," Petr said. "Started this job when there was only two people in here. That guy on the end, he came later, then all of you at once."

"Which one?"

"Quiet thing, looks like a stiff wind would knock him over?"

Hotch knew which one. "The one in for kidnapping."

"Guess so. Though I'm surprised he could manage to snatch someone, way he is…"

"Doesn't take much," Morgan said. "You'd be surprised."

"Eh, what do I know? I 'helped' my company cheat a little on their books, and look where I end up."

"Helped?"

"Really, there was no choice. They had things about me they used to get me to do it. Not a nice place, that."

"Mmm."

It didn't take long for the others to realize that Dave wasn't talking much. He painted a section of wall slowly, sometimes painting the same stroke seven or eight times.

"Dave?" Hotch asked

"Hmm?" He never looked up.

"What's bugging you?"

"Makes you think something is?"

"There's enough paint on that wall to survive a nuclear winter," Morgan quipped. "Seriously, what's up?"

"Nothing."

"You know, talking…it does help," Reid said softly, standing next to the older agent and painting alongside of him. "Believe me."

Rossi continued to paint. He didn't look at his colleagues—he was afraid that if he did, he'd start to cry.

"Dave."

"It's nothing, Hotch."

The other three gave each other knowing looks. Something wasn't right.

The east side of the hall had been painted when the block warden came in. "Nice," he remarked, not above giving a compliment to his prisoners when it was deserved. "You guys work fast."

"Thanks."

"Look, I need the floors washed in here. One of you want to take off painting for a bit, get it done?"

Each one looked at the other. "Which one?" Morgan asked.

"Doesn't matter. Except you," he said, tipping his head in Reid's direction. "Can't leave you alone."

"I'll go," said Morgan.

"All right then. It won't take long—you'll be back pretty quick."

Morgan followed the block warden out of the hall they were painting, listened as the metal bars on the front of the hall slid shut, separating him from his friends. He followed down the short hallway, where an industrial-size mop and bucket were waiting.

"There you are. Just work up and down these halls," the block warden said. "The one you guys are painting on we'll get tomorrow. Leave the bucket near the door when you're finished and we'll come get you. There'll be someone on the block to take you back."

Morgan picked up the mop in his hands and began sweeping the object over the worn tiles. He briefly thought about trying one of those access doors, but there were several guards pacing the halls on watch, as well as the fact he knew full well the door was locked from both sides. It was how the warden could let him work almost unsupervised—there was little chance of making a run for it.

The work wasn't hard, and because the block was empty save for him, it made the job go even faster—there weren't problems coming from other inmates to worry about. Morgan stopped a minute to realize just how fast he was working.

If Mom knew what I was doing now, he thought to himself, shaking his head. His mind wandered over some of their previous cases, looking for any hint of someone who might be able to frame them as they had been.

Most of the people I've made mad at me are dead, Morgan thought. I know the ones Reid's dealt with are dead…except that guy in witness protection, but he wasn't mad at Reid, just that kid who took his daughter. I couldn't begin to count the number of people Hotch and Rossi might have pissed off in their careers, especially Hotch—more angry defendants and their families than unsubs looking for revenge, I'd guess. Emily—she worked desks before coming to us, so how many people could she have pissed off? Unless this has to do with something abroad…

And JJ, and Garcia—who would want to hurt them? 'Course, I thought that before, and look what happened to Garcia…

Morgan's mind was so deep in thought he never noticed the footsteps that were walking in time to the sound of the mop connecting to the tile. He never realized someone was standing behind him until he felt something sharp press against his throat.

"Now," a voice whispered, so soft that Morgan had to strain to hear it. He wanted nothing more than to take the guy out behind him, but the knife at his throat was keeping him in check. "Perhaps we can finish what you so unkindly interrupted the other night?"

"Go to hell," Morgan spat.

The sharp edge bit into his skin a little. "Now, see, that's not nice. Your young friend was much more accommodating…perhaps I'll look him up again…"

Morgan fell dead silent, pure rage coursing through him with every second that passed. The sound of the two men's breaths was loud enough to fill the tiny hallway.

"Now, if you would," the voice said again, pulling Morgan towards an empty cell near the corner, far from the eyes of the guards.

If I go in there… Morgan thought. He took a sudden step backwards, allowing a little slack from the knife blade against his throat, and then hit his assailant from behind as hard as he could. The knife clattered to the floor as surprised hands let go of it in shock. Morgan kicked the weapon away, and turned to face his attacker.

"Who sent you?" he demanded as the man lie on the floor, gasping for breath.

A hand shot out, grabbing Morgan's ankle and pulling him to the ground in a heap. A pair of hands flew across the floor, aiming for Morgan's throat. The two fought viciously for several minutes, Morgan's self-defense moves being an equal match for the assailant's offensive tactics. Finally, the man got the upper hand, pinning Morgan to the ground.

"The next time, you'll do exactly as I say," said the man, whose bright grey eyes shone like marbles. "That lady friend of yours, she didn't, and it cost her."

"What friend?" Morgan demanded.

"Such a shame, about her baby…it was lucky there was a crazy woman on her block to frame for it…"

"What did you do to her?!"

"Ask your friends. One of them has a picture…"

Suddenly there were catcalls coming from the guards. Footsteps sounded against the worn tiles.

"Gotta run," the man said, and then quickly stepped into the hallway and vanished through an access door that locked shut just as the guards came down the hall.

"Hey! What gives?"

"Sorry. I fell," Morgan said, not eager to go through another ordeal like the one two nights ago. "Slipped in a puddle. Must have knocked myself out a minute."

"You hurt?"

"Just a little dizzy. I'll be okay." In fact, things were most definitely not okay—but he couldn't let them know that.

"Well, finish up. Got one more hallway to do, and it's nearly time to eat.…"

"Yes, sir."

Morgan quickly finished. He then followed the guards back into his cell, where he was walked in and watched as the door fell shut. Once the guards had left, Morgan looked out of the bars towards Rossi's cell.

"Rossi, did someone leave you a photograph?"