"How's he doin'?"

Morgan was the first to address Rossi as the older man joined the rest of the team. They'd chosen a table in the far corner of the hotel dining room. Nonetheless, Dave kept his voice low when he answered. If anyone knew what had been happening over the last few days, they'd consider this elite squad of FBI agents a gaggle of credulous crackpots.

"I dunno. Says he wants to be alone."

Looks were exchanged. "So where's Emily?" Garcia's large eyes blinked from behind ruby-red frames. She felt a little at loose ends: Reid had appropriated her laptop and was deep in his concentration zone, bent over the keyboard and seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

"Guess 'alone' doesn't apply to her." You would have had to know Rossi well to detect the unhappy undercurrent in his words, and the immediate company knew their senior teammate very well indeed. He was usually the one who could talk Hotch down off whatever ledge the man found himself occupying. Dave was the one who knew their Unit Chief's internal workings best. He knew when to push, or pull, or cajole, or smack, or hug. Usually.

Sadly, there was nothing 'usual' about their current circumstances and Rossi felt helpless.

Morgan scrubbed at his face, trying to erase the disturbing aftertaste of this entire layover. "Man, I wish we'd never come here. Place is weird."

"We had to come, Derek." J.J.'s calm voice was soothing. "We had a case. But…" A livelier tone made the others glance her way…except for Reid, still lost to the internet. "…the good news is that it looks like the winds are picking up. Fog should be lifting. Our pilot says he's sure we can leave tomorrow."

"Well, that's something anyway." Morgan leaned back in his chair, inspecting the dreary Seattle sky outside the large, plate glass windows lining the far wall. "But the damage is already done, right?"

"I don't know." Rossi's gaze was fixed on the tabletop. He picked at the edge of his napkin. "I get the impression whatever's wrong has been a long time in the making. Even if you don't buy into the whole otherworldly aspect of it, as much as we want to help, I think this might be something Prentiss and Hotch have to work out on their own. It doesn't need to include the rest of us…unless they ask for our input."

There were general nods of acceptance all around, except for J.J.. She watched Rossi with grave eyes. The only mother at the table, she was particularly sensitive to all things parental. She supposed Dave felt left out when it came to this personal crisis in Hotch's life. She knew he'd been a little hurt when Aaron hadn't shared his split with Haley when it happened. She also knew it would have been much better for both men if they'd gotten together on that issue as it happened. Hotch had needed a very particular kind of reassurance and support that Rossi, as a divorced man, was uniquely qualified to provide. Then, too, Dave had needed to feel…well…needed.

She spoke into the lull broken only by Reid's keyboard-clacking. "Rossi, I think it's more a matter of Hotch not knowing what he needs, or how to ask for it, than wanting to go it alone. And maybe he's in a little bit of denial. I mean, it is kind of uncharacteristic for him to believe in…you know…" Her shrug alluded to anything and everything that could be considered paranormal.

For a moment Dave fixed her with a considering look. He gave a slow nod.

One thing he knew for certain was that arguably the deepest wound in Aaron's heart was his ongoing perception of being completely alone. It wasn't his choice. It just was. No matter how many people were willing to stand by his side, the man felt isolated.

So maybe this will help us figure out where that comes from.

This was already a painful process, but, if it could accomplish some healing in the end, it might be a good thing.

A sad, but hopeful, smile touched Rossi's lips even though his mind still balked at the concept of Hotch's soul transmigrating from beast to man

…and back again? No. I'm not going to think about that…

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hotch exhausted himself.

His mind simply shut down, unable to absorb the collision of past, present, and, according to Madame Sobrani, future realities. Sleep wrapped him in its merciful grip, pushing him into a deep, dreamless place, and abandoning him there for several hours at least.

Prentiss watched as her leader quieted.

He was still curled away from her, but if she leaned over she could see his profile and the dried salt tracks of his tears, faint traces of silver in the muted light. "Hotch?" It was barely above a whisper. "Hotch, are you awake? Are you still here?"

She shivered at her own words. He could be anywhere. He could be caged, embattled, looking over his shoulder for the one person he never thought would desert him. She bit her lip. Dreams were no longer the harmless firings of an unconscious mind. They were harbingers. Maybe good. Maybe bad. She wasn't sure which, and that was a big part of the problem. How do you know what to do when you have no idea what the outcome will be? Or when it'll come to pass?

Emily frowned down at her Unit Chief's quiet, still face. She'd never known a man with such command ability who could be hurt so deeply he was unable to hide the pain. He didn't seem ashamed of his tears, and he wasn't emotionally weak, but his odd combination of strength, courage and passion set him apart from the rest of his sex…at least, in her experience it did.

He feels things much more…I dunno…completely?...than others. He's different. A small voice whispered up from the same place that spawned her guilt…That's because there are no elements of meanness or cruelty. His heart is pure…and it trusted you…

"Hotch? Can you hear me?"

When Prentiss was sure he couldn't, she moved to a chair across the room where she could still keep an eye on him.

She called her mother.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the end, Ambassador Prentiss had used a pair of tongs to pick up the turquoise necklace.

She'd poked at it as though it were a living entity coiled to strike back in its own defense at being boxed and covered. Elizabeth controlled her urge to grasp the thing and put it on…to put it around her own neck and know the magic, the sensuality of living flight again.

After the thing had been put safely out of sight, she found the temptation it represented began to wane. She was relieved, too, when the chill in her fingertips began to abate.

Yet the amulets still consumed her mind. Not so much with the promise of wings, but because Elizabeth was having second thoughts about her promise to Emily that she would allow her the choice she herself had been denied by her own mother.

The Ambassador sat at her kitchen table, staring at the box and holding an inner debate.

If I follow through and let her touch this thing, she might not be able to pull away from it the way I did. She closed her eyes in remembrance of the pulling, tearing sensation when she'd felt another second in that strange limbo would have destroyed her. And there's no way to warn her sufficiently. I know my girl. She's a risk-taker, and if she thinks this…heirloom?...will give her the answers she seeks, no risk will seem insurmountable.

But if I change my mind…if I hide it and don't let her near it…then I'll be breaking any newfound trust I might develop with my own daughter. It would be a sad thing to die, knowing I'd leave her with that…that lack…If I died with this distance between us.

Elizabeth ran her hands through her hair in frustration. But it's selfish of me to think of how I'll be perceived after I'm gone. My Emily is the most important legacy I could ever have. Her safety means everything.

But what about her happiness? Her peace of mind?

Before she could delve deeper into the matter of daughters and wings and turquoise, the Ambassador's phone rang. Her breath caught as she saw the caller ID.

Emily…

The time for debate was over.