"Help me get him upstairs."

Rossi enlisted Morgan's muscle in hopes of sparing Hotch's shoulder additional damage on the journey to bed. But when Derek reached into the backseat, preparatory to slipping his hands around the injured man's waist, Aaron struggled up from the depths of sleep. Groggy from the painkiller, his avoidance and self-control were at a low. When Morgan helped him out, the two came face to face. Swaying a little, Hotch stared at his second-in-command's bruised, swollen features.

His voice was low with shame. "Sorry, Morgan. Really…sorry."

As apologies went, it was one of the shortest, but possibly the most sincere Derek had ever received. Hotch's head hung.

"Don't worry about it, Bossman. When I tell the story, it'll be five or six armed unsubs and me with mere seconds to save the world." He gave a lopsided grin. "If I handle it right, I'll be makin' new friends left and right…pretty ones, too."

The Unit Chief shook his head, which almost upset his balance. Morgan steadied him. With a last, guilty glance, Hotch stepped away from the car.

Which is when he realized they were back at Rossi's.

Unsteady on his feet, he gazed at the imposing façade, blinking, beginning to shake his head in small, insistent denial. "No. I wanna go home." Aaron turned eyes, whose depths were as bruised as Derek's nose, on his teammates. "I wanna go home."

Reid and Morgan deferred to Rossi when it came to the gentle kind of paternal handling their leader sometimes needed. The older man stepped closer. "No, Aaron. It would be better if you stayed here for a little while."

Hotch stared at Dave. They could tell his tired, drugged mind was trying to put the pieces together. At last he dropped his eyes and nodded. "You're right. Jack's not safe with me anymore." He darted a shamefaced glance at Derek. "No one is."

It wasn't what Rossi had meant, and certainly wasn't the conclusion anyone had expected Aaron to draw. Dave hastened to do some damage control.

"Look…you're overtired. You need some time to let things settle. The only reason I want you nearby is that we're not done talking." In truth, Rossi didn't want to risk Jack hearing his father wake screaming with visions of worms burrowing deep into his brain. He thought if Hotch could get through a sleep cycle without being plagued by bad dreams, it would be safe to let him go home.

Now he wondered if nightmares weren't the biggest problem. The man's confidence was shattered. Peter Lewis's intrusion had left a trail of damage in its wake, taking a good portion of the Unit Chief's belief in himself hostage.

Hotch was closing down; headed someplace dark and lonely where company wasn't allowed. It was in his posture, his voice, his entire demeanor.

Rossi was thinking it had been a long, eventful day. No one was going to tackle any more problems without a few hours of solid shut-eye.

"You're staying here tonight, Aaron. Tomorrow we'll talk things over. And tomorrow night you'll be back home, reading your son bedtime stories. Morgan, help me get him upstairs. Then you and Reid can head home." He favored Spencer with a grateful nod. "Kid, I don't know what we would've done without you. Things could've turned out a whole lot worse."

Reid's lips twitched in acknowledgement. But most of his focus was on Hotch. There was something so broken and defeated about him. The young genius hoped Rossi was right…that sleep and discussion would make all the difference.

But he doubted it.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Peter Lewis was devastated. Shocked. Stunned.

He sat in his cell running and rerunning the meeting with Aaron Hotchner in his mind like an endless reel of news footage that had happened to someone else. The kind of disaster you shake your head at and dismiss, because it isn't really relevant to your life, your world.

Distancing himself was the only way he could handle the dreadful reality bubbling up from the place where his own deepest fears churned and roiled.

A lifetime of mental stagnation. Worse than stagnation. Exposure to inferior minds at every turn, at every moment. The creatures that would surround him were no better than lab rats. They should be his subjects, his playthings. Not his companions.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Death would have been so much better.

It had already begun. There was no one even close to his intellectual level with whom he could communicate. He'd shown no interest in engaging an attorney, so a public defender had already been assigned to him. The dolt had only served to verify Lewis's low expectations, stating that the case could be drawn out for years with multiple appeals and a veritable circus of legal acrobatics thanks to the geographical diversity of the murders.

As though that were a good thing.

As though his client gave a rat's ass damn about his pathetic strategies.

Lewis's jaw was sore from grinding his teeth together.

There had to be a way out. He let his despairing gaze travel over the sparse accommodations. Maybe he could liberate a piece of plumbing, or a mattress spring and use its dull edge to saw open his veins…Maybe he could volunteer to clean bathrooms or work in the laundry and guzzle down enough chemicals to poison himself.

He fisted his hands in his hair, gripping with punishing force. If that sad, little FBI agent had done as he'd been programmed, none of this would be happening. Lewis wouldn't have had to face his own cowardice. Wouldn't have to admit that he couldn't do violence to himself. He didn't have the guts.

He hated Agent Hotchner for putting him in this position where he was confronted by traits he'd managed to deny all his life.

And that other agent. The one who'd slipped past him. The skinny one who seemed eminently ignorable. That was just…not…fair… The plan was supposed to be carried out between him and Hotchner. It wasn't right that someone else had skipped in and merrily laid waste to all his lovely work.

Rage stirred in Lewis, but he tamped it down as soon as he recognized it. Such things were for lesser beings like the sad-eyed Hotchner and his primal cesspit of instincts. The unsub's agile mind whirled.

If ever a situation cried for the sweet release of revenge, this was it.

Hotchner might not be a weapon anymore, but that didn't mean he couldn't be ruined. After all…the original plan had been for a murder that would destroy the agent, sending aftershocks through his career, his family…his entire life.

Peter Lewis felt the first faint breeze of salvation. Something he could put his phenomenal mind to work on. He'd learned a lot about Aaron Hotchner during their time together. Most of it had been unusable due to the time factor. He'd been rushed.

But now he had all the time in the world. A lifetime, in fact.

And there was a lot of unused ammo lying dormant in sad, little Aaron's mind.

All he had to do was find a way to ignite it.

For the first time since they'd dragged him from the conference room, Peter Lewis smiled.