Fletcher leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath as he waited for his call to connect.

Two days had passed since he'd tangled with Mason and reached an uneasy truce about subjugating personal agendas in favor of his patient's welfare. Hotch and Rossi were due for another appointment and Fletcher was sure it wouldn't be the last. So, to that end…

"Hello. Yes, this is William Fletcher. Dr. William Fletcher. I wanted to request a medical extension for Agent Aaron Hotchner." The psychiatrist's voice was clinical, devoid of emotion. He didn't know why, but he was reluctant to let the FBI's Human Resources Department in on the anticipation he felt when it came to this particular patient. Aaron's so damn private, maybe some of it's rubbing off on me. Or maybe I don't want to let on that this might be the first request of several. That man's got enough material inside him to base a career on.

The thought sent a shiver through him, like icicles sprouting along his spine.

Despite their conversation, he had a feeling Dr. Mason might be thinking along those very lines. He'd been pleased at what he'd read as genuine enthusiasm for Hotch's case in his little colleague's demeanor, but in retrospect, Fletcher wasn't sure if he'd seen the glow of someone committed to the Hippocratic Oath, or the gleam of greed in someone who'd just discovered a professional goldmine.

Well, however it goes, Aaron's my patient. Ultimately, it's my responsibility to make sure the man is treated, not used. And yet…

Fletcher's sigh was weary. He knew he was teetering on the blade of an ethical dilemma. Mason's desire to harness Hotch's damage and make him the stuff of psychiatric precedent was valid. If others could benefit, if information could be shared with an eye toward helping those who currently suffered in silence, then Fletcher wavered when it came to opposing the diminutive doctor.

It's just his personality. It's in direct conflict with both those agents. Neither Dave nor Aaron were at ease with Mason's attitude more than anything else...

"Yes?" Fletcher pulled himself back to the issue at hand: getting Agent Hotchner additional appointments.

A bored, yet officious voice said another month could be granted, but the doctor presiding over the case would need to submit a written explanation within the next five days. Should he or she fail to do so, the extension would be automatically rescinded.

Fletcher nodded, scribbling a reminder to himself. "Thank you. I'll take care of it right away. Can I just email it to you, Ms….?"

"Ms. Stein, Doctor. And no, uh…" The sound of a keyboard being put to efficient use came in a quick burst. "…reports about Agent Hotchner need to be sent to the Director's office. Do you have his email?"

"Yeah…" The word was tinged with sudden trepidation. Fletcher caught himself and hurried to sound more like the clinical professional he'd strove to be when the call began. "I mean, yes. Yes, I've got his email address on file."

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Doctor?"

"No, thank you. That's everything."

Ms. Stein murmured a polite nothing and closed the connection. Fletcher didn't really hear her. He was pondering the implications of reports about Aaron being sent directly to, well…the Director. It wasn't standard procedure. It didn't bode well.

He tucked it away in a corner of his mind to worry about later. Right now he had to prepare for other patients, as well as another open-ended, late day session with Hotch. He found himself looking forward to having Rossi on hand. If Mason needs handling, it'll be better coming from Dave than from me. No way he'll be able to accuse an FBI agent of being a credit-grabbing glory-hound.

I just hope things go more smoothly than last time for Aaron's sake.

Fletcher pulled out a file in preparation for his next patient and made a firm effort to put Agent Hotchner and little Dr. Mason from his mind.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Hieronymus was on his own.

He'd begun browsing the information Fletcher had given him in preparation for their next meeting with Aaron Hotchner and had become enthralled. When the clinic's Research Department receptionist had buzzed him on his intercom to tell him two students had arrived to be interviewed as possible test subjects for a study on sleep deprivation and its role in anxiety disorders, Mason had snapped at her.

"Give them to someone else, Maggie! Give them to someone else or send them home. And don't bother me again!"

His peevish voice had made the poor woman wince: it had been audible to the students in question and had carried all the charm of a mosquito's whine. Hieronymus didn't know, and wouldn't have cared if he had. He was too deep in the subject of an FBI agent's tattered psyche to have room for things like courtesy or professionalism.

But what began with eager anticipation began to change as Mason read.

Fletcher hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said Agent Hotchner was suffering from multiple layers of trauma; some as yet unidentified.

With additional, unknown complexity thrown into the mix, it was beginning to look as though the man wasn't a perfect specimen of Moral Injury Syndrome after all. And that just wouldn't do. No, it wouldn't do at all. Hieronymus's small face twisted into the dissatisfied grimace one might associate with having eaten a bad clam that lingered on the palate. He began an internal dialogue, since he considered himself the best sounding board for his own genius.

This patient has too much backstory to make MIS the featured one. But he does have MIS. He truly does. I'm really not interested in the rest of his baggage, but… Mason's features un-creased a little as he listened to his own advice. …but he's not my patient, as that ingrate, Fletcher, took such pains to point out. The little doctor's expression smoothed a bit more. So why shouldn't I focus on the aspects of the case that are pertinent to my work, and let Fletcher wade through the rest of the man's murky workings to his heart's content?

At last, a full smile graced Hieronymus's rosebud lips. Yes, that's the perfect solution. I'll just push one facet of Agent Hotchner's damage into the light so I can examine it. And Fletcher can handle the rest.

Feeling good about his strategy, Mason found it much more enjoyable to leaf through Hotch's files.

Sometimes it was nice to know such bad things could happen to such tall, dark, handsome men.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Jack immersed himself in the morning activity that had become routine for days he knew Dad's evening would be spent with his special doctor.

Backpack, homework, lunch, overnight stuff for staying with Aunt Jess…and a small, secret smile every once in a while when he cast sidelong glances toward the refrigerator door.

His drawing from history class was taking up a large portion of it, fixed in place with magnets in the shape of various vegetables. His father hadn't said a word, but only items that ranked high in Daddy's estimation ever achieved display on the fridge.

Sure, there were other things in a hodge-podge of family memories. Some photos. A ribbon given for the highest score on a math test. An MVP soccer award. But all those were objective ratings; all the result of someone proclaiming Jack's performance to be 'the best.'

The drawing was different. It could only be judged in a subjective way. There was no chance for it to be 'best.' In fact, it was highly imperfect. Completely individual. Totally Jack.

And Daddy was proud of it, just the way it was. Jack knew because every so often he'd see his father glance at the refrigerator door with his own small, secret smile, too.

XXXXXXXXXX

That morning, Hotch's son hugged him.

It wasn't the fierce, little-boy hug given to a super-hero. It was different. Maybe older, more mature. Nonetheless, it filtered its way into Aaron's heart and warmed him every time he thought about it. It carried him through the day.

The Unit Chief felt calmer and more confident right up to the time of his appointment with Fletcher.

And Mason…the little man whose hate had been so palpable last time.