A/N: Thanks for the sweet reviews, everyone. It's particularly gratifying because I worked a lot harder on this story than any of my others (as you can plainly see from some of the older ones; I try not to reread them). But if you have constructive criticism, please, speak up. I always like to know it if you think I've gone too far off character, or something.

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J.J. exhaled hard, forced air through her vocal cords, and what finally emerged was: "Thanks... for calling. Take care of Dad." She gently laid the phone down in the cradle, not really listening to the plaintive protests that had continued emanating from the handset, and looked around. Oh, God, Reid was headed up to her with cups of coffee clutched like manna from heaven in both hands. She really couldn't deal with him right now.

J.J. leapt up and shoved the door closed, making a mental note to buy the person a drink who'd had deadbolts installed on the insides of Quantico office doors. She collapsed back into her chair and let out a deep breath. She needed some time to think. Switching her office phone over to voicemail was an inadvisable but necessary step. Peace was ensured.

The others would have to know. Maybe she could tell Hotch, and he could just spread the word. Half of them were parentless one way or another, and they were profilers; they'd understand and wouldn't crowd her. But the antsy, evaluating glances were just as unappealing a prospect.

She summoned up all her nerve, exited the office and made a straight flight for Hotch's door, determinedly ignoring the bullpen below, clinging to deafness as she dodged shouts of her name whizzing up at her. Unfortunately, all her years as a soccer star had never taught her how to dodge football players. The same thought sped through Morgan's features as he blocked her at the head of the staircase. "Intercepted," he teased her, almost comically baffled when she rolled her eyes at the failsafe grin that he knew had always netted him anything he wanted from a woman. J.J. had never had the heart or inclination to disabuse him, but right now she was about ready to shoot him with his own gun. "Hey," he murmured, taking a light hold of her elbow. "What's up?"

"I have to talk to Hotch," she answered in a firm monotone. "It's important."

Meanwhile, Reid and Prentiss had joined the convoy at the top of the stairs, earning baleful looks from other agents intent on moving between floors. "Is it a case?" Reid wanted to know, sounding as if he knew it wasn't. J.J. was briefly overrun with a wild, adolescent compulsion to kick them in the shins and sprint for the parking lot. So much for the discretion of profilers. But in these heels, she wouldn't make the fifth step, let alone a clean getaway. And there wasn't really any escape.

"No, you can finish your coffee, wonder boy. I just have something to discuss with him."

"J.J. It's us," Morgan pleaded. "Talk."

J.J. sighed, leaning a hand on the railing, manically evading the distress and affection being leveled at her by her two friends. She focused instead on Emily Prentiss' expression, laced only with a hint of anxious curiosity. Not for the first time, she was thankful for Emily in Elle's place. "My aunt called. My mom's heart finally gave out. I need to ask Hotch for a few days off." She forestalled all responses with a raised palm. "Trust me, this has been a long time coming. The time bomb's gone off, that's all, and it's probably better this way. And if I need anything, you guys will be the first to know." She steeled herself to meet the horror and sympathy head-on for a few seconds, then she spun away down the hall, amazed at her own success in stalling the cavalry.

She felt stronger as she approached her supervisor's door; it was open, and he was on the telephone. He hadn't seen her yet, and she took a few moments to observe the way he communicated so much information and authority without giving away anything of himself. It was comforting to know that handling even the most personal matters was business to him.

As he neared the end of his conversation, he looked up and raised his eyebrows at finding her lurking in the doorway. He motioned her in, and she shut the door behind her, moving to stand in front of the desk. A short while later, he hung up and duly fixed his attention on her. "What can I do for you, J.J.?"

"Sir, I need some vacation time. Three or four days, if that's possible." His eyes narrowed at the honorific she usually reserved for Gideon alone. Oops. "I have some family business to take care of."

"I'm sorry, J.J., but our current caseload barely gives us time to sleep. You're going to have to be a little more specific than that," he said gently.

Damn him. He was handling her, and that even, measured, infuriating look was efficiently eroding her cool outer layer of detachment. The fever of her aunt's voice was slinking back in. "I've got to go home and help. You don't know what it's going to be like. Just... chaos. My dad won't be able to face any of it, and my aunt will be planning some kind of block party or reunion bash if I don't keep an eye on her. And... I can't let those people invade the house like that. Her house. She always kept it spotless. And they'll stand around eating casseroles and inspecting all her things, and struggle to find nice things to say while they try to remember the last time they said two words to her." She was pacing blindly, and although she kept groping around for the grand manner she'd used on the others, the words just wanted out. "It's her funeral! It should be about her... and the people who give a damn that she's..."

She pulled up short, completely frozen. Strangely, she was surprised by the hand steadily clasping her shoulder. When had he come up behind her? Oh, God, it was all here now, and she couldn't hold on. "Don't..." she whispered. But it wasn't any good. With J.J.'s splintered defenses went the strength of her bones, and her knees had barely brushed the carpet before she was wrapped up tightly in a warm suit-jacket cocoon. The tears were instantaneous, as if they'd happened upon an open tap, they were terrifyingly violent and, to J.J., interminable.

And that was when she stepped out of herself, illuminating every alteration that sharing her life with these people had wrought in her – people who stubbornly carried this safety net all through the devastation, into every corner of the deep dark.

But she was ashamed of dropping down into its weave, so afraid she'd lost everything she'd built up for herself in Hotch's eyes by crumbling into fragments in his arms like a petrified child. And, even worse: today that was exactly what she was.

But now that boat had sailed. Her pride was the only thing still protesting this unexpected comfort, but it clamored more insistently as the trembling catharsis fed on her shame and distress, showing no sign of ebbing, and Hotch was forced to vocalize his worry, unconsciously imbuing the hand in her hair with a nervous new rhythm. "Hey, shhh... You can do this, J.J."

She muffled a small, damp laugh into his collarbone. "Yeah, nothing back home really compares to the media sharks practically laying siege to this place."

Hotch said nothing as he supplied her with a box of tissues and joined her again on the floor, unhesitatingly reestablishing contact with a hand on her shoulder, but when she'd mopped up her face, she met his eyes: his glare was eloquent enough. Hotch's idiosyncratic glare that let people know he didn't believe a word they said and he wanted the truth yesterday. The glare he usually reserved for suspects. J.J. never wanted to see it again at such short range. But this was beyond embarrassing. Still, her only other option was the fire escape. And she'd borne witness time after time to the things Hotch did to people who ran from him. Morgan's tackles were the least of their problems.

"Your jacket," she offered lamely. Hotch shrugged at the pool of smudges left by J.J.'s tears and mascara that had transformed his lapel and front pocket into a soggy mess.

"The dry-cleaner can fix that."

J.J.'s smile was fragile, and she felt uncomfortably tearful once again. Taking a deep, exhausted breath, she pulled herself together and nodded sharply, letting her eyes drift around the office, not really knowing what she was seeking. She found it, though, in a framed photograph near the window, a shot of Haley with her son in her arms, swinging him around and laughing up at the camera. J.J. knew Hotch hadn't taken the picture; she'd been there when he'd arrived straight off the plane and found the envelope from Haley on his desk, postmark indicating she'd spent the week that had been swallowed by the case at her parents' home. J.J. flinched. Hotch's absence from this lighthearted scene of love and warmth was painful, as it was to him, she knew. And Haley's smile was so bright and... compensating. Now, Hotch was waiting, dark eyes fixed on her, the slight frown behind them growing slighter as she straightened and faced him. He was right – she could do this.