"So, you wanna go somewhere? Get a bite?"

During the quiet drive home Rossi had been casting sidelong glances at Hotch, watching the cogs and gears turning in the man's troubled mind. There was no response to his invitation. "Hey! Aaron!"

"Huh?" Hotch stopped gazing out the passenger side window at whatever internal landscape had claimed him, blinking himself back to the present. "Sorry. What was that?"

"Food? Drink? You? Me?"

"Oh…uh…" He straightened up, checking his watch. "…thanks, but since we got out early, I should let Jessica know she doesn't need to take Jack tonight." In one smooth, practiced motion, he retrieved his phone from an inside jacket pocket, flipped it open, and pressed the appropriate speed dial.

While Aaron informed his son's aunt of the change in plans, Rossi continued surveillance of his friend. Indeed, observation of The Hotch in its natural environment seemed to have become his chief hobby, occupying a good deal of his time both at and away from the office. Dave thought he was beginning to see more of the rat's maze that had been twisted into Aaron's mind, but, as with a crime scene rife with clues, it was all circumstantial evidence and needed someone to put it all together. He hoped Fletcher was the right person for the task. He sincerely doubted Mason was.

Rossi was reminded of Morgan's anxiety when their Unit Chief had returned from his extended sick leave after being stabbed by George Foyet. Then, as now, it had been too easy to overthink and pick apart Hotch's every action, gesture, expression, word. Worry could transform friendly concern into a disabling force. Dave wanted to make sure he didn't step even one toe into that arena.

He kept quiet when Hotch asked if they could swing by Jessica's and pick up his son. As Rossi made the short detour and pulled to the curb, he didn't say that he thought Aaron should get his bearings before interacting with the boy. It was a balancing act between nudging Hotch to be careful, and, by doing so, creating damaging inroads into the man's confidence. But kids notice stuff. Like a tremor in the hand…or a catch in the voice…or sadness. And that kid really notices when Daddy's sad.

But as Jack burst from his aunt's front door, hopping down the steps in a headlong trajectory filled with youthful energy, there didn't seem to be any trepidation or reluctance about him. He settled into the back seat, grappling his jacket and backpack while fluttering a large sheet of paper in his grip. The ride back home was accomplished in meaningless queries about how the school day had been. Rossi couldn't tell if the upbeat atmosphere was genuine or sprang from Jack's effort to bolster his sad Dad. Aaron was a studious, interested parent, but there was still a dejected air about the man.

So when the trio reached the Hotchner abode, Dave invited himself in.

"Mind if I visit? Just for a minute?" At least I'll be able to see how they are together for myself. Doc Fletcher's observation about the parent feeling an over-sized version of the child's pain might be something I'm guilty of, too, when it comes to Aaron. Rossi cut the ignition, making it that much harder should Hotch wish to deny his request.

But the young father was still in a semi-distracted frame of mind. "Sure. Come on in," he mumbled as he disengaged his seatbelt and exited the car.

Once through the front door, Jack headed for the kitchen, snack-bound despite having eaten dinner at Jessica's. He shed his gear on the small table at which the Hotchner men usually ate, leaving his backpack on top of the large sheet of paper he'd been careful not to fold or wrinkle.

"What's that?" Aaron tilted his head, unable to decipher whatever was beneath the backpack.

"Oh. Nothing. Just some stuff from history." Hotch's son was far more interested in the refrigerator contents than in explaining a class project.

"Can I look?"

"Sure. Whatever." Jack emerged from his rummaging with an apple and a soft drink. "I got other stuff I gotta do for tomorrow. Science." He wrinkled his nose in criticism of his least favorite subject, snagged his backpack, and trotted off toward his room, evincing complete unconcern for granting access to the history project.

After the boy had disappeared, footsteps fading and bedroom door closing, Hotch stood staring down at the sheet of paper. Jack had scratched out his first abortive effort…the one that had prompted Jewel to take pity on him and open his eyes to her way of approaching art in a free, unfettered mode.

Aaron didn't know that. Even though it was crossed out, he peered at the excruciating, labored, torturous piece of work. The closer his examination, the heavier his heart.

Rossi glanced at the paper, then back at the younger man's face. Hotch's eyebrows were executing an involved choreography. Dave read concern, disbelief, anxiety…all ending in something deeply sorrowful as Aaron's eyes lifted to his, twin pools of brown tragedy.

"He's like me. He's like me, Dave. I know what I drew meant there was something wrong with me. I heard what Dr. Mason said. And now I know it's not just me. It's…it's…" His voice failed, strangled by the thick apprehension that he'd somehow crippled his child.

Rossi watched as Hotch seemed to lessen; to pull in on himself. Reflexively, Dave reached out and flipped the piece of paper over, wanting nothing more than to remove the catalyst that was causing his friend's transformation from upright to cringing. And…

…Rossi's gasp was involuntary; a sharp intake when he realized that this was the real drawing…this was the window into Jack's internal workings. "Aaron…" He couldn't take his eyes from the graceful, arcing lines. "…Aaron!...Look!"

With slow, painful trepidation Hotch returned his gaze to the paper that he considered a condemnation, a reflection of his influence on his son; his personal damnation. He blinked. Once. Twice. Again.

The moisture that had been lingering on the sidelines finally made its full appearance. Tears blazed a salty trail down Aaron's gaunt cheeks even as the corners of his lips quirked upward. There was one broken sob, but Rossi didn't pay it much mind.

When he looked at his friend he saw joy. An unexpected joy mixed with relief and release. The tears were harbingers. As usual, Hotch had been expecting the worst.

But this time he had been granted a reprieve. He bent closer to Jack's drawing, the chuckle of a man who'd been spared, who'd been granted sudden hope bubbling up. "He drew that? It's…it's…"

"It's pretty damn good, Aaron."

"It's not me. He's not me."

Dave moved closer, too. He rested a hand on Hotch's back where the muscles were doing a trembling dance filled with too much emotion. "He is you, Aaron. This is you. You've just lost your way. Too many people have messed with you, but, even so…this is what's underneath. This is what you've gifted your son."

Hotch closed his eyes and heaved a long overdue sigh. It felt as though a heavy stone had been lifted off his chest. He could breathe.

And he could see his son's underlying soul in a rendering composed of sweeping lines that made you want to spread your arms and fly.

Because even if flight wasn't possible, you could still feel it in the deepest part of you.

All you had to do was let it out.