"Rossi!" Reid screamed again in utter horror, struggling against the nurses attempting to keep him lying down. Blinding pain flared in his abused body at every movement, but he didn't care.

This couldn't be happening. They had made it out. They were alive. They were supposed to be okay.

Rossi wasn't supposed to be lying unconscious on the floor of the emergency room, chest visibly struggling to expand while nurses moved around him at what seemed like a snail's pace.

They were supposed to be okay.

They were supposed to be okay!

"Agent, please lie back. Try to stay calm." A nurse's voice broke into the panicked fog that had settled around Reid's mind. "You're partner's being taken care of, but you're going to hurt yourself."

"No!" Reid found himself screaming, even as his breath was catching in his throat and his heart was stuttering in his chest. "No!"

How could they expect him to stay calm? How could they expect him to lie back like nothing was wrong? Everything was wrong! This wasn't supposed to happen!

Fresh tears ran from Reid's eyes in rivulets, the salt stinging at the cuts on his face as he fought to escape the firm hold of the nurses keeping him on the gurney.

They were supposed to be okay!

"Reid!" A familiar voice spoke from somewhere in front of him. "Reid, it's Derek. Can you hear me?"

Derek. Morgan was here. Had the rest of the team arrived?

"Kid, can you here me?"

Right. Morgan asked a question, that meant he wanted an answer. Reid nodded.

"Okay. Kid, I need you to take a breath."

Take a breath? But didn't Morgan understand that the heavy weight sitting on his chest prevented that? He shook his head.

"You can do it, kid. Can I touch you?"

Touch him? Reid wasn't sure he wanted to be touched, especially after what he had just gone through. But it was Morgan. Morgan wasn't going to hurt him. He nodded.

Morgan gently took hold of the wrist of his uninjured arm and pressed Reid's hand to his own chest.

"Just breathe with me, Pretty Boy. You can do it."

Morgan's chest rose with Reid's hand on top of it, and Reid struggled to copy the motion.

"That's it, kid. Just keep breathing."

Reid matched Morgan's breaths and his vision started to clear, revealing Morgan on one side of his gurney, still holding his hand, and JJ on the other, watching him with a concerned look.

A look past the curtained off area showed Rossi being wheeled away on his own gurney, Hotch and Prentiss walking on either of his sides.

"Rossi," Reid breathed hoarsely.

Morgan ran his other hand through Reid's hair.

"The doctors are gonna take care of him, Reid. He's gonna be fine," he said. "Everything's gonna be okay, kid."

Reid could only hope that he was right.

•••

Hope must have been a powerful thing, because an hour later found Reid sitting at Rossi's bedside in the wheelchair that Morgan had eagerly volunteered to push.

The older agent was still unconscious, but his color had greatly improved since the last time Reid had seen him. His chest rose and fell with a steady, even rhythm and the heart rate displayed on the EKG was normal and healthy.

The only thing off was the tube that protruded from his side, mostly hidden by the blankets.

Chest tube. Used to drain excess blood and fluids from the chest cavity. Standard treatment for a haemothorax caused by internal bleeding.

Reid didn't know why he hadn't caught it before. The pallor, the perspiration, the tremors, the chest pain, the dizziness, the confusion. Rossi had displayed all the symptoms.

He should have been paying more attention. Then maybe he could've gotten Rossi the help he needed sooner.

How could he have been so stupid?

•••

Reid nervously tapped his foot on the floor as he sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room of the hospital. The chairs around him sat cold and empty under the unusually dim fluorescent lights and the corridor in front of him seemed to stretch on indefinitely, its end shrouded in darkness.

"Agent Reid?"

Reid looked at the doctor that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere before him.

"Yes?"

"I have news about Agent Rossi."

Reid sat up straighter, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation.

"Is he okay?"

The doctor's face was emotionless when he spoke.

"No, agent. He didn't make it."

It was as if an impossibly heavy weight had been slammed right into the center of Reid's chest. He stared at the doctor, his mouth agape.

Rossi couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. He was... He was Rossi.

"W– what?"

The doctor's eyes, devoid of even a hint of sympathy, bored into Reid.

"Agent Rossi's stab wound caused severe internal bleeding, which in turn led to a collapsed lung that we were unable to reinflate. He's dead, agent."

Reid's world may as well have shattered around him. He buried his face in his hands as the tears came suddenly and forcefully. Broken sobs clawed their way out of his throat hard enough to hurt.

Rossi was a rock, both physically and emotionally. He protected his teammates like a father protects his children. He fussed over them when they were hurt, he was a shoulder to cry on when they were upset. It was unbelievable to think he could be taken out by something as simple as a malfunctioning lung.

The doctor's voice broke into Reid's broken-hearted thoughts.

"You can see his body if you want."

Before Reid could process the doctor's words, he suddenly found himself standing in an empty trauma bay, its plexiglass walls that should have offered a clear view into the emergency room showing nothing but darkness. A sheet was covering a distinctly body-shaped object on a gurney in the center of the room.

Hesitant steps brought Reid to the side of the gurney. All he had to do was lift the sheet, then he could see for himself, but it was like his hands were frozen at his sides.

Was it like Schrödinger's Cat? If he didn't lift the sheet, did that mean that Rossi was both alive and dead?

Reid didn't have to decide, because the doctor materialized on the other side of the gurney and without preamble, pulled back the sheet.

A wave of nausea rose in Reid's stomach and his tears fell anew at the sight before him.

Rossi's closed eyes were sunken into his skull and his face was a grotesque shade of grey-white. His partially unbuttoned shirt had been moved aside to reveal the deep, purplish bruising that surrounded the stab wound.

Reid wasn't exactly sure how he ended up on the floor. All he knew was that one moment he was standing, and the next his legs were crumpled under him while his entire body shook with sobs.

He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He could barely think.

Another one of his father figures was gone. First his dad had left, then Gideon. Now Rossi was...

He couldn't even admit it to himself.

So wrapped up was he in his own pain and sorrow that Reid barely felt the cold hand settle on the top of his head. Its touch was gentle, slightly stiff fingers running through his hair, massaging his scalp. It was a comforting touch, even if Reid couldn't decipher its source.

His grief-induced trance was abruptly broken when the fingers suddenly closed around a lock of his hair and harshly pulled. Reid yelped in pain and surprise, trying to pull away, but the hand held firm. It pulled sharply upwards and he quickly scrambled to his feet to find himself face to face with Rossi's body.

Reid watched in utter horror and disgust as the corpses's eyes slid open with a sick squelching sound, glazed-over eyes piercing, deep and accusing, into his soul.

"I'm dead because of you." Rossi's voice was like gravel over rocks. A death rattle formed into words. "If you hadn't been such a whimpering little bitch, I'd still be alive."

Reid couldn't answer, his mouth gaping open like a fish gasping for air. But what could he say? Rossi was right.

He was dead because of him. He was dead because Reid was too much of a coward to fight back.

Rossi's hand tugged harder on his hair, bringing Reid's face inches from his. Cold radiated from his pale skin but no breath came from his lips.

"It's your fault."

The tears that had gathered in Reid's eyes finally fell as a heavy stone of self-loathing settled in his gut.

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm sorry!"

Rossi pulled viciously on his hair, causing Reid to let out a sharp sound of pain.

"Sorry isn't going to bring me back to life, Cucciolo," he spat the usually affectionate nickname venomously. "I should've let him kill you."

A new hand landed on the back of Reid's neck and ghosted down his spine. The voice that followed made his blood run cold.

"It's time for you and me to have some fun."

•••

Reid jolted awake in his wheelchair, head whipping around to examine his surroundings.

He wasn't in a dark trauma room, but a brightly lit recovery room. There was no sigh of the emotionless doctor or Wilkins. Rossi was in the bed before him, but his skin was a healthy color and his chest rose and fell with life as he breathed.

Reid heaved a sigh of relief. It was just a dream.

As if on queue, Rossi began to stir. Reid reached out and hesitated for just a moment before he took his hand.

"Rossi?"

The older agent's eyes blinked open somewhat sluggishly. His pupils under half-mast lids were clear and dark.

"Spencer?" His voice was hoarse, but nowhere near what it had been in Reid's dream. "That you?"

Reid nodded.

"Yeah, it's me, Rossi."

Rossi smiled at him as he opened his eyes the rest of the way. He lifted his hand and Reid released it so the older agent could cup his cheek, thumb ghosting over the livid bruising and gashes closed with butterfly bandages. The color matched that of his own wrists, at least the part that could be seen from under the bandages. His smile faded.

"Oh, Cucciolo. Are you okay?"

Reid nodded, if a little stiffly.

"I'm fine."

Even disoriented, Rossi wasn't convinced.

"How bad was it?" His face turned stern. "And don't you dare lie to me."

Reid dropped his gaze to his lap for a moment.

"My arm and nose are broken. I have four cracked ribs. No internal damage. A lot of bruising."

Rossi bit his lip, eyes flashing with a mixture of guilt and anger.

"You said you wouldn't blame yourself," Reid reminded him.

Rossi shook his head resignedly.

"I know," he said, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Reid smiled despite himself.

"How are you feeling?"

Rossi blew out a breath and looked down at his side.

"Other than the tube in my side draining blood that's not supposed to be there?" he said sarcastically. "Oh, I'm peachy."

It was meant as a joke, but Reid still felt a stab of guilt. He had to say it. It was now or never.

"I'm sorry." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry," Reid repeated, louder this time.

Rossi furrowed his brow in confusion.

"What are you sorry for?"

Reid couldn't meet the older agent's eyes when he spoke.

"This is my fault." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the tube. "You only antagonized Wilkins because of me. If I had just fought back, this never would have happened."

Rossi was silent for a moment, several different emotions warring on his face. When he finally spoke again, his tone was serious.

"Spencer, look at me."

Reid hesitantly lifted his gaze to meet Rossi's eyes.

"This is not your fault," the older agent said in a tone that left no room for argument. "Antagonizing Wilkins was my decision and no one else's. And I would do it again if it meant protecting you."

Reid shook his head in frustration.

"But if I had just fought back–"

"Stop right there," Rossi cut him off. "You did fight back, Spencer."

Reid shrugged.

"It wasn't enough."

"It doesn't matter." Rossi's voice rose just slightly, but there was no ill-intent behind it. "What matters is that you did. And I am so damn proud of you for trying."

Reid felt a surge of emotion at Rossi's words, but still didn't meet his eyes. The older agent sighed.

"I see how it is," he said. "So I don't get to blame myself, but you do, is that it?"

Reid finally looked up.

"It's not your fault," he said.

"It's not your's either," Rossi retorted.

Reid averted his eyes again. Maybe Rossi did have a point. The double standard wasn't fair, but still...

"You're really okay?"

Rossi smiled victoriously.

"Yeah, kiddo, I'm really okay. Too fucking old for this, but okay. Not that I'm old, of course."

Reid laughed as Rossi chuckled.

"Alright," the older agent opened the arm on his good side, "come here, give an old man a hug."

Reid smirked.

"I thought you weren't old."

"Shut up. Get in here."

Reid smiled as he laid his head down on Rossi's good shoulder. The older agent rested his hand in his hair, gentle but firm.

"I love you, Cucciolo," he said, voice suddenly sober. "You know that, right?"

Reid nodded, feeling his eyes grow wet.

"I know. I love you too."

They stayed like that a moment before Reid pulled away and sat back up. He then watched in bewilderment as Rossi carefully shifted his body so that he was lying on one side of the bed.

"What are you doing?" Reid asked.

Rossi looked up at him as if the answer was obvious.

"Come on, you're obviously exhausted, and I'm sure it's more comfortable than your chair." He pursed his lips for a moment. "Besides, I don't think either of us want to be alone right now."

Reid considered the offer. Rossi was right, he was exhausted and the bed would be more comfortable. And he was a lot less likely to have any more nightmares when he was with someone.

"Okay," he finally said.

Rossi smiled.

"Good."

He lifted the blanket, allowing Reid to crawl in next to him. The young agent immediately curled into his side and put his head back down on his shoulder.

"Hey, kiddo?" Rossi called softly when Reid was settled.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to make you the best Carbonara á la Rossi you've ever had when we get out of here. You deserve it."

Reid chuckled.

Rossi curled his hand around the back of the young agent's head and pressed a kiss to his forehead, keeping his lips against it when he spoke.

"Get some sleep, Cucciolo."

Reid had no nightmares that night.

•••

He got up.

He went to work.

He went home.

That was how it used to be, but no one saw him then.

They did now.

Now he got up.

He paced his cell.

He went to bed.

Jail was boring. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to. They treated him like he was one of the scum in there. He was nothing like them.

At least when his trial finally came, they would send him somewhere that he would get the respect he deserved.

He got up.

He paced his cell.

He went to bed.

He deserved that respect. He had sacrificed his career and killed a man to get it.

He got up.

He paced his cell.

The guards came and brought him to an interview room. A older, dark-haired man in a tailored suit jacket and his left arm in a sling was there waiting for him.

It was one of the FBI agents. The one who had been stabbed. How the hell was he still alive?

"I got better," the agent answered. Smug son of a bitch.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, Rob," the agent shortened his first name with a smirk, "I want to know why. Why get up one day and decide to start a riot?"

Wasn't it obvious?

"Nobody saw me," Summers told him. "Nobody gave me the respect I deserved. They will now."

The agent tipped his head back and laughed. Not just laughed, guffawed.

"What the hell's so funny?"

The agent pretended to wipe a tear of mirth from his eye.

"Sorry, I just find it hilarious that you actually believe that."

Summers felt rage bubble up in his chest.

"I will be respected," he shouted. "Look what I did!"

"What exactly did you do?" the agent asked, unfazed. "Because from where I'm sitting, it's not a whole lot. Let's see..." He leaned back in the chair that he was sitting in and looked off into the distance, as if remembering. "You killed your coworker. Sure, happens all the time. But then, and this is the part that I find funny, you sent the inhabitants of A-Block to do your dirty work by killing my partner and I, but they didn't even succeed. So, Rob, I reiterate, what exactly did you accomplish?"

Summers opened his mouth to retort, but found that he was speechless. The agent smiled.

"That's what I thought," he said. "So you can forget about that notoriety that you think you'll get in prison, especially when your fellow inmates discover who you really are. You were a prison guard, so I think you know the answer to my next question. Tell me, Rob, who do prisoners hate more than anyone else in the prison?"

A stone of dread settled itself in Summers' gut when the answer came to him immediately.

"That's right," the agent said with a unsympathetic smirk. "Prison guards. Oh, they are gonna love you there." He stood up from his chair and meandered to the door as he spoke. "Well, this has been fun, but I'm afraid that that's all the time I have today. But, Rob, I encourage you to enjoy the rest of your life." He let out a light laugh. "Well, at least for such time as your fellow inmates decide to prolong it. I'll see you at the trial."

The agent never looked back as he left the room, satisfied smirk firmly on his face.

•••

"The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers: every man shall be put to death for his own sin." – Deuteronomy 24:16