A/N: Sorry for another long wait. It was a crazy week at school, plus my 21st birthday... 'nuff said. This chapter's a little bit longer to make up for the wait.

Disclaimer: Still don't own 'em.

Don woke up to his blaring alarm. That was fortunate – he wasn't even sure that he'd set it before going to sleep. His next thought was one of intense guilt. Deciding that it was a little too early to call, Don went ahead and got ready for work. While driving in the morning rush hour traffic, he made use of his cell phone.

"Hello?" Charlie's voice was groggy.

"Hey buddy," Don greeted, almost cheerfully. "Did I wake you up?"

"What do you think?" came the disgruntled reply.

Don laughed. "Sorry about that. Listen..." his voice turned serious. "I really needed to call about what happened last night."

Charlie tried to cut in to tell him that there was nothing to explain, but Don wouldn't allow the interruption.

"Hear me out," the agent spoke over his brother. "I'm sorry for last night. I shouldn't have yelled at you. You were just trying to make sure I was okay, and I should have appreciated that. So, I'm sorry."

When he didn't hear a reply for several seconds, Don began to worry that Charlie had fallen back asleep. "Still there, Charlie?"

"Yeah, Don. Like I said, no need to explain. If anything, I should be thanking you for telling me how you really felt."

Don wanted to contest that statement, but he realized that he couldn't. While he shouldn't have gotten angry with his brother and told him to leave, everything else he had said was true. He was afraid that people thought he was stupid or weak, even if he didn't want to admit it. He really didn't think there was any other way to get rid of the internal pain without cutting. But it was also true that he wasn't going to throw his life down the drain by cutting again. "Thanks for being at my apartment when I got home," Don finally responded.

"Any time."

"Call before you come next time, though, Chuck," Don joked. Charlie laughed, and then told Don to have a nice day. Don returned the farewell before hanging up.

Megan was at her desk when Don walked into the bullpen. After giving him a few minutes to set down his stuff and get a cup of coffee, she approached his cubicle. "What happened last night?" she asked in lieu of a greeting. His bloody knuckles hadn't escaped her notice.

"Spent some time in the gym with the punching bag, then went to the batting cages for a while," Don responded nonchalantly, not even looking up from his computer.

Megan was taken aback that she hadn't needed to pry the information out of him. "And not answering the phone?"

"Just needed some time to process."

She nodded, still amazed at his level of honesty. "So, are you doing okay now?" Megan knew she was probably pushing her luck to expect him to keep cooperating. To her continued surprise, he looked up at her and answered truthfully.

"Not really. Still feel like something's crushing me, but I'll get over it."

Was he just having a really good morning, or did it seem like he actually trusted her?! "So punching a bag until your hands bled… did that help?"

"No, not really. It externalized the pain, sure, but didn't do much in the way of letting it go. Maybe next time I should use some gloves." Don's voice was still nonchalant, as if they were talking about sports or the weather. His eyes returned to his computer screen as he checked his email.

"Maybe that would be a good idea. What about batting? Was that good?"

"Alright, I guess. Better than boxing, at least."

"So do you still want to cut?"

Don laughed once, then looked back at her. "Oh, you were serious?" he asked with feigned surprise. Then he was back to serious and nonchalant. "Of course I still want to cut. The desire is still there, I just won't give in this time."

"Be sure to find me if you feel like you're starting to slip," she reminded him.

Of course, he thought. She's one of the ones that think I'm weak. Don knew it wasn't true, but sometimes knowing the truth and believing it weren't the same. Not letting any of his thoughts show on his face, Don nodded and returned to his computer, signaling that the conversation was over.

Megan sighed as she returned to her desk. It had been going so well, but now Don was shutting her out again. She decided that maybe she was coming across too much like a nagging mother, and that it might be a good idea to back off a little.

Don quickly finalized all the paperwork he'd abandoned the night before. His biweekly appointment with the psychiatrist had gotten bumped back by a day because of the rape case. Consequently, Don had to settle for a mid-day appointment rather than his usual early morning time slot.

The morning flew by, and before Don knew it, he was taking his seat in Dr. Gibson's office. The psychiatrist smiled cheerfully at the agent as they began the session. "Long case?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. Even if Don hadn't called the day before to request a postponement in their appointment due to a case, the shrink could tell from the way Don had dropped into his chair.

Don nodded wearily in response.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Don shrugged without making eye contact. Dr. Gibson was disappointed, although he didn't let it show. Several weeks had passed without having to remind Don to cooperate, and it had been even longer since the agent had regressed to only using nonverbal responses.

"How did the case turn out?" The psychiatrist continued to probe, hoping that Don would open up without having to be explicitly reminded.

"Six women raped before we caught the bastard," Don gave the brief summary.

"How many were assaulted after your team took over the case?"

"Three."

"How did that make you feel?"

Don hated that question. It had to be every shrink's favorite inquiry, but it never ceased to aggravate Don. He shrugged again, but when he looked up at Dr. Gibson, he knew he would have to elaborate.

"Pretty bad," he admitted, though he just couldn't bring himself to say, It made me feel.

"How so? Guilty? Sad? Angry?"

"All three, but mostly guilt."

Dr. Gibson nodded. "It isn't your fault."

"No, it isn't my fault, but I'm still responsible." Don had had this exact conversation with Charlie when Megan had been kidnapped. Charlie had tried to explain some mathematical theory that was supposed to make him feel better, but Don had cut him off in the middle.

"You can't just dwell on all of the failures. I'm not saying you should forget the victims, but you have to be able to move on."

Don sighed softly. "I find that I can't move on. At least, not until the next case. And even then, the faces of the victims are burned in my head. Any time I start to feel like I'm doing a good job, all of those images resurface."

"Have you tried thinking about all of the people you saved because, in the end, you caught the perpetrator?"

"That sometimes helps, but usually I have to wonder why so many had to pay the price before we caught the guy. Didn't they deserve to be saved?"

"Of course they deserved to be saved, but you're just one man, leading one team in one office in one city. You can't save everyone. And when you start beating yourself up over all the ones you didn't save, you're not going to be able to do the job. You'll either paralyze yourself with fear of failing another victim, or you'll attack every case with so much intensity that you burn out or start to despair that you'll never make a difference."

Don stared at his hands on his knees. Did the doctor think he was weak now, too? "Then why do we even try?"

"Because you can save some. Not only are you saving all the potential victims, but you're protecting the rest of the public from having to see all those horrors."

Don continued to stare at his hands, not responding.

"Is there something else that's bothering you, Don?" Don stayed silent. "What is it?" Dr. Gibson probed again.

Silence. The psychiatrist decided to wait it out.

Finally, Don looked up and abruptly asked, "Why doesn't anyone think I can do my job?"

Dr. Gibson's mind raced back through the conversation so far, but he really didn't see any connection. "Who doesn't think you can do your job?"

"My team, my family, you," Don listed sadly.

"What makes you think that your team doesn't believe you can do it?" the shrink asked, planning to go down the list that Don had given.

Frowning, Don responded after only a moment of hesitation. "A lot of little things… comments they make, the way they are always watching me, asking me if I'm okay, offering to let me leave, the looks they give me when we're on a tough case. The worst is the looks they give each other about me when we're on a tough case. It's like they don't trust me. And that scares the hell out of me. I'd rather die than not have the complete trust of and in my team. Right now, I don't know that I have either."

Dr. Gibson was encouraged by the quantity and quality of Don's response. It didn't sound like the agent was just trying to spew off enough fluff to satisfy the shrink – it sounded genuine. "Have you talked to them about it?" he asked. Don shook his head. "And what about your family?"

"More of the same. They treat me like I'm fragile or about to snap, and they get overly concerned when I ignore their calls."

"Why do you ignore their calls?"

"Sometimes I just want a little space. For the past couple months, everyone has been so afraid that I'm going to cut that they don't ever want to leave me alone." Don briefly recounted the previous night's fiasco.

"Do you understand why they're so worried?"

"I'm not about to go off the deep end, if that's what you're asking." Don's tone was sarcastic.

"Is there any reason that you can think of that would make your family and friends concerned about you when you ignore their attempts at communication?"

"They don't trust that I'm strong or smart enough not to cut." There. It was out.

"I don't think that's it, Don," Dr. Gibson tried to reassure. "I don't think anyone you know would think that you are weak or dumb."

"They have a great way of showing it," Don replied bitterly.

"How long did you hide your cutting before your brother found out?"

"A few years. What does that have to do with anything?"

"So your friends and family have just recently found out about a relatively long-term coping mechanism you've used. When you're going through a tough situation or a hard case, they get concerned. And when you refuse to communicate with them, they expect the worst – that you're hiding from them because you're cutting again."

"But I'm not hiding from them," Don protested. "I just want some time to myself!"

"I understand, Don," the shrink soothed the agent. "But maybe they don't. I think you need to sit down with your family and with your team and tell them exactly what's going on, and listen to what they have to say. They probably don't realize that the way they are acting is hurting you. They might not even know that they're doing anything. If you are open and honest with them, they are less likely to worry so much when you take some time for yourself. Let them know now that you will occasionally need time alone. Then, when you want to go off by yourself, tell someone. That way, everyone will worry less about you, and it will help rebuild any trust that has been lost on either side."

Don gave Dr. Gibson a skeptical look. It was hard enough to talk about his feelings with the shrink, even when his job depended on it. He'd never been big on opening up to anyone else, and now the psychiatrist expected him to share his feelings with his family and his team?!

Dr. Gibson read Don's look easily. Before the agent spoke a word, the psychiatrist continued. "It will help, I promise. Maybe it won't feel like it right now, but you'll understand later on." With that, Don was dismissed from the session to return to work.