Rossi studied the younger man with increasing concern.
Hotch's dark eyes roamed, no longer focused inward. Now they had the movement and expression of a panicked animal. Dave couldn't help envisioning a wild stallion roped and hobbled for the first time, eyes rolling, unsure of what fate had in store, trying to find an escape route, or at least keep the enemy in sight.
But where are you trapped, Aaron? And who do you see as the enemy?
He kept his voice calm. "So when's your next appointment with Fletcher?"
"Uh…I don't know…Next week, I guess." The Unit Chief's gaze came to rest on Rossi. "I wish it were sooner." Dark eyes filled with secret torment. "He's making me stand down tomorrow. I guess he thought I needed time off to…to think, but…" The baritone voice trailed off; thoughts going someplace where words were useless, so remained unsaid.
But Dave knew. A tempest was building in his friend. Time to mull things over was not an attractive proposition. He reached across the table, taking a firm grip of his teammate's wrist, hoping it would tether him to something…someone…safe. "Listen to me, Aaron. Take a deep breath and stay with me here." He gave Hotch a moment. When the man nodded and didn't pull away, Rossi continued.
"I think we both know enough about human behavior to know that something's wrong. And we both know that we need help to figure it out, which is where Fletcher comes in. So, all the pieces are in place: we got you, we got me, we know there's work to do, and we got the shrink. So overall…you could say we got this. Don't let it work on you, okay?"
Hotch swallowed, fully attentive, but every 'tell' screaming confusion and growing fear. "Dave? What's going on? I…it's like…I…" He fell silent, unable to explain or quantify the unraveling feeling inside. He edged closer to Rossi despite the table between them; a sign the older man could read with ease.
"Ya know, I'm already planning on staying the night. I think I'll call in sick tomorrow, too."
"You don't have to do that, Dave."
The shrug was very Italian and very eloquent. "I want to."
"I'll be okay."
"Sure you will."
"I mean…alone."
"You won't be alone. I'll be here."
Another swallow; a hard one in a parched throat. "What do you think's wrong with me?"
This time Rossi was the one who needed a moment. "I'm no psychiatrist, Aaron. We know a lot as profilers, but nothing near what the docs do."
"Not asking for a diagnosis, Dave." Hotch edged even closer, letting the table's edge dig into his ribs. "Just want your thoughts. Please."
"Alright…alright…" Rossi nodded, squeezing the wrist in his grip as a sign of comfort and continued connection. After a long, thoughtful pause, he gave a decisive nod. "From what you've said here tonight, I think you're either mis-remembering or rewriting cases that hit you harder than most; ones that got into you and left some hurt behind." He met the Unit Chief's hungry stare. "I don't know the mechanics of it or the first thing about how someone would go about doing that to you, but I'm pretty sure I do know who did it."
Aaron's posture caved. No longer straining toward the security Rossi represented, he deflated. If Dave had had to describe the transformation in one of his books, he'd have said that defeat and dread had accomplished a perfect union, like an unstoppable, chronic condition that ran so deep it might have been termed 'congenital.'
"Lewis. Peter Lewis." Hotch's tone was dead, leaden...
…and absolutely certain.
XXXXXXXXXXX
Dr. Fletcher couldn't recall ever being so frustrated.
He'd combed through the official reports concerning Agent Hotchner. He'd reviewed the notes he always made after appointments. There was nothing to refute his original diagnosis of PTSD plus a case of MIS that had been growing with each action that conflicted with this patient's highly developed sense of justice.
He glanced at the clock presiding over one corner of his desk and grimaced. If I don't get some sleep, I'll be useless to all my patients tomorrow, not just one, poor FBI agent.
He gave a jaw-cracking yawn and pushed back from his computer, reaching to switch off the monitor. His hand froze in midair.
Wait a minute. I started this whole goose chase because Aaron's perspective regarding these mandatory sessions with me underwent a sea-change. A big one. All out of proportion with his initial interaction with me. Fletcher leaned back in his chair, lips pursed. His perspective changed and he's blaming himself beyond all reason for killing a man in a clear case of self-defense. So…one change in perception might be understandable, but…two? Two in psych terms is the possible start of a pattern. He rubbed his chin, feeling the stubble he'd need to shave off in a couple of hours before heading to work.
I wonder…Are you viewing other things differently, too, Aaron?
An hour later, mind too active for sleep, the psychiatrist showered, shaved and dressed for another day at the office, all the while running through possible scenarios to test Hotch's views. By the time Fletcher decided he might as well drive in to work, he'd also revived his eager anticipation for his next meeting with the undoubtedly troubled, but increasingly fascinating, Agent Hotchner.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
It was a morning of mixed signals for Jack.
Daddy was dour and tired, eyes red-rimmed. Both he and Mr. Rossi kept up determinedly cheerful facades, informing the boy that they'd be spending the day together at home, because Daddy needed some rest. Jack could tell there was something else going on, but he didn't try to learn more. He had the feeling it was one of those things adults like to pretend are secret. Grown-ups liked to think little kids couldn't pick up on the signs of something being wrong. Most of the time, little kids let them get away with it.
So Jack accepted the situation and played along, giving both men sidelong looks when they weren't watching.
He decided to be content that the pizza he'd brought home for Dad had several bites taken out of it. The contentment drained away, however, when Mr. Rossi spoke to Jack in his room in a soft voice so Daddy wouldn't hear, warning him that he might need to spend the night with Aunt Jessie.
Jack didn't have much chance to worry, though. Once he was dropped off at school, questions and concerns took a backseat to the matter of pre-teen social survival in the educational system.
When stray thoughts of home intruded, the littlest Hotchner was just glad once again that Daddy wasn't alone. Mr. Rossi would never let anything bad happen.
He wished Mr. Rossi had been there when George had come to call on Mommy.
XXXXXXXXXXX
Fletcher wondered how to approach his next session with Agent Hotchner.
He didn't want to frighten the man or turn him defensive by telling him his mind might have been tampered with more deeply than suspected. On the other hand, when dealing with MIS, once the incident that inflicted moral injury was identified, the second challenge to treating a patient was to win his trust and reassure him that he wouldn't be judged and was deserving of forgiveness.
Kind of hard to do when you're hinting that the guy's not in his right mind.
But this isn't as straightforward as all that. This might also be a matter of creative recall. Things are getting warped, but it might be more than just that one episode with Foyet. If something's altering Aaron's perceptions…making him eager to talk to me, rather than hostile…making him see himself as a murderer, rather than a rescuer…I need a way to test him. I need to know if Aaron's the source, or if someone or something else is the facilitator between his mind and reality.
By the time the doctor reached his office, he had an idea.
It was difficult to wait for a decent hour before setting things in motion. At 9 a.m. he let his first patient of the day wait while he made the call.
"Hello, Mr. Rossi? It's Dr. Fletcher. I wonder if I could enlist your aid with something I'd like to try on Aaron…"
In rapid succession, the psychiatrist was surprised, pleased, and then alarmed when Rossi said he could have Hotch there any time.
The sooner, the better.