Rossi and Morgan left Hotch standing by his bed.

Dave had offered to help him get out of his clothes and washed up, but the Unit Chief had mumbled that he appreciated it, but he could take care of himself and he didn't want to hold the others up any more than he already had. They backed off, leaving him looking like a human cypher for uncertainty in front of his go-bag.

Downstairs, Hotch's three teammates conferred.

"He'll feel better tomorrow." Rossi always tried to find the high ground, partly out of hope, but partly because they'd been through enough for one day. He needed to tell himself something rosy so he could justify falling into bed. He couldn't run on fumes the way Reid could, and, to a lesser extent, Morgan.

"I dunno, man. He's gonna hurt a lot more tomorrow; that's for sure." Derek touched the tender bridge of his nose. "We all are. And not just his shoulder."

"I'll feed him painkillers. They'll keep him relaxed. You saw him; he took his medicine like a good boy for once."

"No, Rossi." Reid rubbed his eyes. He'd done with less sleep than anyone else. "Hotch wasn't being good. He didn't care. He's depressed. I know depression when I see it."

Dave's gusty sigh conveyed his reluctance to continue the discussion at this time. "Look, there's nothing more we can do tonight. I'll stay close to him. I know all his tricks and his hiding places. We'll get him through this."

"Yeah. Sure. C'mon, Pretty Boy. I know where we can get free cookies."

"Huh? Oh…yeah…Garcia." Reid shrugged. "I don't feel like it. I'm going home."

"Uh-uh. You gotta come. Gotta split her focus. At least for a little while. She sees me like this…" He gestured toward his blackened eyes. "…she'll freak. You gotta come."

"Don' wanna."

"Gotta."

Spencer's lanky body signaled resignation in the set of his shoulders, the angle of his neck. "Fine." He brightened before the inevitability of the situation. "Actually, cookies for breakfast sounds kind of good."

Morgan herded his young teammate toward the door before he could change his mind. " 'Night, Rossi. Call if you need help with Bossman. I'll check on you guys tomorrow."

With a last flurry of assurances that things would look brighter in the morning, knowing it was mainly for their own comfort, the three friends parted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, Mudge, wha'd'ya say we feed the huddled masses? Or…try to, at least."

The dog had materialized at the mention of 'cookie' and was gazing up at Rossi with hopeful eyes, clearly expecting him to make good on hosting guests who trailed such a provocative word before him at such a late hour.

Dave took a page from Reid's response… "Fine. Cookies for breakfast. C'mon, boy."

In the kitchen, he filled Mudgie's bowl, adding a few biscuits as an apology for the meal being unconscionably late. Having satisfied canine requirements, Rossi put together a sandwich intended for Hotch.

He began to pour a tumbler of Scotch, belatedly recalling that alcohol and painkillers weren't a good mix. If Reid was right and Aaron was depressed on top of everything else, booze was a chancy thing.

Dave downed the drink himself, wincing at the burn. Even the finest liquor was hard on an empty stomach.

Trudging up the stairs with a sandwich plate and a glass of water, he listened for clues to Hotch's mood as he approached the guest room.

Silence.

Rossi peeked around the doorjamb…and sighed. Aaron hadn't moved. He stood, shirtless and arm-slinged, where they'd left him, eyes fixed in a sightless stare. Dave moved in.

"Hey…" The greeting was a precaution against startling the mournful figure; Rossi hadn't really expected a response, so he wasn't disappointed.

Hotch was someplace very far away.

And someplace very lonely. Probably going down the darkest of all possible paths. Dave's lips compressed. The guy's life strategy is to anticipate the worst, so he explores the most hopeless, desperate terrain of every situation.

"Aaron…Aaron…?" When Rossi won a blink and a slight change in posture, he presented the sandwich, tilting the plate in what he hoped was a tempting way before the Unit Chief.

It reminded Dave of vet-day for Mudgie. He always apologized to his pet for the experience by proffering treats. But with a full complement of vaccinations rendering him woozy, the dog would gaze at the peace offerings with a groggy look of incomprehension. Biscuit? What is this thing called 'biscuit?'

That was how Hotch regarded the sandwich.

"It's called 'food,' Aaron. Some believe it's necessary to our continued survival." The gentle ribbing only made the baffled expression deepen and then turn from plate to Rossi.

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Dave shelved the concept of nutrition, sliding the plate and glass onto the nightstand by the bed. "You haven't made much progress, so I'm gonna renew my offer to help get you settled. And this time you don't have a choice."

Hotch's eyes were having trouble focusing. He tried to accomplish his glare, but couldn't summon the laser-like energy behind it. "I'm…what…?"

"You're done. That's what." Rossi shook his head, turning the younger man toward the bathroom. "C'mon, let's get you comfortable and put you down for the night. As I said, we'll talk tomorrow."

He managed to maneuver the Unit Chief in front of the sink with gentle nudges and a steady stream of encouragement. But there Hotch balked. Dave rummaged in the small shaving kit he'd extracted from Aaron's go-bag.

"It's only for a few weeks, but you need to get used to using your right hand." Rossi brandished a toothbrush with a triumphant flourish. "Here…take this."

But Hotch made no move to comply. His grave, dark eyes were searching the older man's face, a little bleary, but occupied with things of far more import than cleaning one's teeth. Dave saw the makings of yet another sleepless night lurking in the brown depths regarding him. His arm dropped; toothbrush and routines of dental hygiene abandoned for the moment.

"You need to sleep, Aaron. Alright. What's bothering you now?"

Hotch swallowed what felt like a mountain of debris composed of all his failings…all his fears…

"He…he made people do things, Dave." Rossi knew who 'he' was. "H-how can I be sure I'm not still…not still…"

"Under Lewis's influence?" The older man's sigh was deeply weary. "You beat him at his own game, Aaron. Tonight, that's all you need to know." He leaned close, voice taking on a confidential tone that held all the certainty and reassurance of which he was capable. "Let it go for now. Let it go…"

"But…but he tried to make a man kill his own son!" Hotch's breathing was becoming labored. "What if?... What if?..."

Rossi saw where this was headed; saw the ultimate horror that Aaron couldn't escape. He grabbed the younger man's good arm, giving it a small, decisive shake intended to override the narcotic effect of the painkiller.

"Yes. He tried to make a man kill his own son." He shook Hotch again. One, short, sharp yank that jarred his injury enough to send a jolt of pain through his drugged sensibilities, sharpening his mind for a moment. "But he failed, Aaron! That man gave his life to save his son's."

Rossi could see the fear of a man who loved his child above all else shining from his teammate's eyes. A primal fear. He held the dark eyes with his own, hoping for a connection…man to man…father to father…that would transcend all Hotch's insecurities.

"Aaron…do you really think you love Jack less than that man loved his son? That Lewis could rule you when he failed with another man?"

Hotch blinked…too emotional to give voice to his greatest dread. Rossi bent, resting his forehead against this young father's.

"You will never hurt your son, Aaron. Never!"

But in Hotch's deepest heart, he saw his own father's abuse…and wondered if Lewis might have seen it too…used it to further his own ends. Because I'm not like other fathers. I have abuse in my genes. It can pass from generation to generation. We know that. What if Lewis…I don't know…augmented it…rewrote it…rewrote me…

"Aaron?"

Rossi searched, but he couldn't find anything comforting in Hotch's eyes.