Rossi pulled up before the townhouse Hotch had rented when he'd become Jack's sole guardian.

It didn't have the memories or stains of either the house he and Haley had shared, or the apartment where Foyet had liberated a great deal of Aaron's blood. It wasn't exactly a jolly place, but it did have nice landscaping. It also had bars on the windows and a very reliable security system.

He's never going to really feel safe again, Rossi thought as he exited his car. Probably felt safest at the BAU, and then they had to go and arrest him. Now he doesn't even have that as a refuge…something I just realized. Despite the psychiatrist having pointed out that Hotch's troubles weren't attributable to anyone else, Dave felt a frisson of guilt as he strode to the front door. I bet there are a lot of things I haven't considered; a whole grab-bag of unfortunate fallout from those stupid accusations. Taken on their own, they might not seem so dire, but add them into the mix of what the poor guy's already suffered and…and they might feel insurmountable to him.

Rossi tried to erase his grim expression as he rang the doorbell.

He was partially successful.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"What's wrong?" Tommy Delgado frowned at his soccer teammate.

"Nothing." Jack Hotchner mumbled his response, choosing instead to concentrate on unrolling his sleeping bag beside Tommy's bed.

"Yeah, there is." Young Mr. Delgado had no qualms about pushing for answers. His sensibilities weren't as honed and cautious as Jack's father's were. "You've been acting weird for a while. Why?"

"Have not."

"Have too." Tommy waited for his friend to say something. This kind of ping-pong one-upmanship was only fun if both parties participated. Jack wasn't holding up his end. He hadn't done too well at practice either. "Why'd you let Randy get that goal past you today?"

No answer as Jack scrunched deeper between down-filled layers.

Tommy flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling as he pondered the mysteries he felt sure were surrounding his friend. "Coach didn't even yell at you." His voice lowered, suffused with a sense of injustice. "If it'd been me, he would've yelled plenty. Never yells at you."

"That's 'cause he feels sorry for me. Now shut up about it."

"Sorry? Why should anyone feel sorry for you?"

"Shut up, Tommy." Jack turned on his side, hoping to emphasize his reluctance to pursue this subject matter by presenting his back to his teammate.

"No. Why should anyone feel sorry for you?" The boyish voice scaled upward, determined to ferret out an answer. "Why should…"

"Boys!" The bedroom door cracked open, revealing the elder Mr. Delgado's mock-stern visage. "No more talking. Go to sleep. Now!" The door eased shut after a few beats; just long enough to assure Tommy's father that his message had been received.

Exasperated, the son of the house sighed. "Wish my dad was cool like yours."

Jack whispered into his pillow. "No you don't…"

The boys drifted off to sleep. One envisioning his portly, accountant father wielding a firearm and racing to the rescue the way he imagined Mr. Hotchner, the FBI agent, did.

The other's last impression before slumber claimed him was the echoing memory of handcuffs ratcheting around his father's wrists…and the undercurrent of fear he'd heard in Daddy's voice that gave the lie to his shouted assurances that everything was okay.

It blended with other sounds hovering on the edge of recall. Gunshots. Battering and scrabbling. Things smashing and thudding. Distant, but they had the taint of something dirty and desperate and very, very final.

The sounds were beginning to emerge and were demanding his attention more and more…

…ever since Daddy had been forced to his knees and taken away at gunpoint.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"So you gonna offer a man a drink or what?"

Rossi didn't particularly want more alcohol; the libation at Dr. Fletcher's had been enough. But the request prodded Hotch away from the doorway, allowing Dave to enter.

"Yeah. Sure." It was the small, distracted voice of a man whose mind was engaged with concerns more pressing than social niceties.

Rossi followed Hotch into the kitchen. He took note of the plate of eggs congealing on the counter; the salad wilting at its side in a show of solidarity; a demonstration in protest against meager appetites. While Hotch busied himself retrieving glasses from cabinets and ice cubes from the freezer, Dave surveyed the sad, uneaten dinner.

"Not hungry, Aaron?"

"Huh? Uh…no. Guess not."

"Wanna tell me why?"

Ice rattled into the tumbler. Liquid sloshed in after it. Hotch turned to hand the drink to his guest. "You're the one who talked to Fletcher. Maybe you should tell me."

Rossi sipped, openly studying the younger man over the rim of his glass. His expression grew wry. "Yeah. 'Cause you're such an open book, that anyone can read you, right?"

Still at the counter, recapping the liquor bottle, Hotch's head dropped. "I'm sorry, Dave. I'm just not really in the mood for company."

"Then I guess it's a good thing Jack's not here?" Rossi watched his friend's back stiffen. It had been easy to read the child's absence. Add that to the hollow way Aaron had said his son's name over the phone, setting off all Dave's alarms…And maybe he is an open book when it comes to being a father…or to those who know him best…Another unwelcome pang of guilt struck, resonating like a heavy bell through Rossi's conscience. What else haven't we talked about over the last few months, Aaron?

"Jack's at a friend's. Sleepover."

"Good. It'll give us a chance to talk. We don't get to do that so much anymore."

Hotch had been giving his visitor glancing looks. Now he turned his full attention on him. Rossi's mouth turned grim at the corners, noting the misery in the younger man's eyes, but he held himself in check. He might be able to read the Unit Chief more than most, but if one wanted to access the layers that went deeper than the visible…well…it took patience and persistence. And sometimes something a little harsher was required.

"Come on, Dave. You just came from Fletcher, didn't you? So you either want to talk about something he said, or he asked you to find out something and you're on a mission." Hotch turned his back, picking up the plate with his neglected dinner, dumping it into the garbage.

"Alright. That's enough." Rossi's voice rang with an authority he seldom used now that his one-time protégé was his boss. Still, it hooked into Hotch, making him go still. "I'm not keeping any secrets from you, Aaron." Dave's brows drew downward. "Turn around and look at me." He counted it a tiny victory when Hotch complied, albeit with the reluctance of an adolescent.

"Now the only thing that shrink asked me to do…No. Not even 'asked.' He hoped that if I had the chance to meet him and form my own opinion, that it'd be favorable and that I'd pass that on to you so you'd feel a little less trapped and maybe actually salvage something good from these sessions you have to attend if you want to keep working and being upwardly mobile in the Bureau. Well…" His frown deepened. "I said look at me." Rossi raised his chin and took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, returning Hotch's gaze with steady purpose. I'm still your elder and in some ways your superior. Show some respect.

"If you want to wallow in your own angst when people are standing by, ready to help you…go ahead. But don't think that'll solve whatever's going on with Jack."

Direct hit. Hotch's legendary Stare faltered. He blinked. Everyone knew Hotch never blinked. He was famous for it. Gotcha, you poor, miserable son of a…

The steel left Rossi's tone. It melted into the comforting warmth of velvet. "I know something's wrong. This has nothing to do with any treatment the Bureau mandated. This is me, and this is you. Talk to me, Aaron. 'Cause if you don't, it'll break an old, Italian guy's heart. You don't wanna do that."

Hotch dropped his eyes to the floor, features blank.

It was like watching the tide slowly recede from a beach, transforming it from one kind of landscape into another. Bitterness and challenge drained out of the Unit Chief's expression. He chewed his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth. When he looked up at Dave again, his dark eyes had gone soft and sad.

"No. I don't want to break your heart, Dave."

"Good. Then tell me what's wrong."

"I…I think I might have broken Jack's. I think I might have broken everything."

Rossi watched moisture gather in his friend's eyes, and was glad of it.

Sad Hotch was so much easier to reach than angry Hotch.