Hotch sat in his car and let his mind drift.

He didn't like the blank feeling. Sure, it was peaceful and undemanding, but it was alien to the way his brain usually sped along, synapses clicking, multiple trains of thought flying along well-defined tracks that led to purposeful destinations.

Fletcher had asked him where he was going after their appointment; had even offered to 'call someone' if he felt like company of the non-psychiatric sort. Hotch had said he wanted to go for a walk, but now…now he didn't. It had sounded like a benign, therapeutic activity, putting one foot before the other with no particular destination. But almost as soon as he set shoe leather to pavement, the Unit Chief felt someplace was drawing him, reeling him in like the catch-of-the-day.

Work.

The familiar confines and demands of the BAU.

The faces of people he could trust with his life.

People who were not part of his domestic situation. At least, not on a daily basis.

But now, as he let the mental process float along at its own pace, a disturbing, little voice whispered at him…You want to go there, because your role there is defined…because you know what's expected…because you don't have to think about who you are…your identity is written in your job description…but… the feeling of being forced to his knees intruded, of cuffs snicking hard around his wrists, of Jack's screams…but that's where the label 'conspirator' was slapped on you…that's where the orders to invade your home were issued…that's where your service record was abandoned in the wink of an eye…in the snick of a cuff

There are no safe places. Not really.

In the end, after twenty minutes of perspiring behind the wheel in the day's growing heat, Hotch knew the reason why he wanted to go to the place that had engineered his betrayal and still left a bad taste in his mouth.

Rossi.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Dave had fielded questions when he arrived at the Bureau after dropping Jack at school.

In the kitchen as coffee swirled into his cup…"Where's Bossman?"

"He had some things to take care of this morning."

As he traversed the catwalk, headed toward his office…"Hey, where's Hotch?"

"Handling some personal business."

Spoken in hushed tones as J.J. hovered in his doorway…"Is Hotch coming in today?"

In the bullpen beyond her Rossi could see anxious eyes tracking the conversation. Brows were raised. Spines were stiffly straight, straining toward the liaison and Hotch's best friend, hoping to discern some clue. Because no matter what Dave said, they could tell something was wrong; could sniff it in the scent of their leader's absence. Rossi sighed.

"J.J., get everyone into the conference room. It won't take long."

XXXXXXXXXX

Jack ambled back toward his classroom on auto-pilot, barely aware of the familiar route he was taking.

It wasn't until he heard his name that he pulled free of the thoughts swirling around his mind in untidy, chaotic choreography. He halted; head jerking up. It took a minute to realize he wasn't being hailed by anyone.

He was being discussed…

"…Jack Hotchner."

"I know, but divorce isn't the stigma it used to be."

"You're kidding, right?" A pause during which Jack took a step closer to the door standing ajar. The door with the words 'Teacher's Lounge' printed on it in neat, block letters. "Ohhhh…you really don't know?"

"What?"

"His parents divorced, but that's not what took her away from him. His mother was murdered. Right in their own home."

"Noooo…"

"It was all over the newspapers. Front page with follow up side stories for days."

"My God! What happened?"

The voice oozed authoritative knowledge…and a predilection for delectable gossip. "A serial killer! You know the boy's father's an FBI agent, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, I'd heard, but that doesn't mean anything. Guy could be on cyber-crime, or a statistician, or a lot of things, but…he had something to do with a serial killer?"

"You had to read between the lines, but it sounded as though he killed the mother as revenge against the father. I mean, he'd attacked the father once and didn't kill him, so…" A shuddering exhalation conveyed horror to the little boy in the corridor. "…so it was theorized that the whole mess was part of a scheme against Mr. Hotchner."

"How long ago was this?"

"I dunno. Maybe five years? Six?"

"Where was Jack when all this was happening?"

"In the house…"

"While his mother was being killed?"

"Yeah…Can you imagine?"

Out in the hallway, a motherless boy could imagine very well.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"So what's the deal with Bossman?"

Morgan's question embodied the combined concerns of Hotch's entire team. Rossi looked from face to face, eye to eye, before responding.

"He needs some space. He's taking a few hours here…a few hours there… to deal with…"

"Not by choice." Reid blanched, startled that he'd spoken aloud. Sometimes his thoughts moved so quickly they turned into speech before he'd had time to judge if they were appropriate. The dead quiet under Rossi's stare made him hurry to justify his blurt. "I just mean, you know, Hotch never even takes lunch breaks."

"Yeah." Morgan picked up the thread. "He wouldn't suddenly start playing hooky unless someone was making him do it. So, what's the story, Rossi?"

"OH!" Garcia's large eyes, made liquid and limpid behind thick, turquoise glitter-frames, filled with worry. "He's not sick is he? Mon Capitan isn't, you know…ill…with…with something awful, is he? And…and having to get treatments, is he?"

Rossi rubbed a hand down his face, lingering over his beard. "All right. Everyone calm down and let me get a word in edgewise." He paused, exerting his authority to put an end to useless speculation. "Hotch is fine. And no, he isn't absent by choice…"

"What are they doing to him now?" The angry contempt rippling through J.J.'s voice cut Dave off and sent his brows skyward. The liaison was more apt to be the voice of reason than of wrath. "Come on, Rossi. I was there, remember? I don't care how much evidence they thought they had; there was no reason to call in SWAT to take Hotch in his own home. Are they still after him?"

The senior agent took a deep breath. "They are not 'still after him.' But, yes, they do still have their hooks into him." Dave didn't want to encourage the workplace climate that liked to denigrate the upper echelons, but he couldn't lie. Not to these people. Not about Hotch.

"Psych eval." The words said in a dead tone dropped like lead among them. Tara's steady gaze challenged Rossi to deny them.

"A little more in-depth than standard, but…yes. Psych eval."

"Wha'd'you mean? What are they doing to him?"

XXXXXXXXX

Hotch made a beeline from the parking garage to the bullpen.

He'd intended to go straight to Rossi's office, but the sound of conversation coming from the conference room and the visible absence of his team from their desks sent him on a detour.

Must be a case came in. Wonder why I didn't get the notification?

He decided to make as unobtrusive an entrance as possible.

The presentation of facts and photos was the first step in pulling together the disparate elements of his team. Minds would begin to meld. Talents would begin to mesh. Hotch had never told anyone, but it was an invigorating, exciting process that stirred his blood and sharpened his senses. He was like a hound being given the scent that would become the focus of his world until his quarry was found, until the hunt was over.

It was just what he needed to feel normal again after the psychiatric session.

Two feet away from the doorway, he realized his error.