Revelations

"Can a man embrace fire and his clothes not be burned? Can a man walk on burning coals without scorching his feet?"
~Proverbs 6:27-28, HSCV.

Maura's Rental House. Alexandria, Virginia.

Jonas Shostakovich felt every bone in his body jar as he jogged up the front steps of Maura Morrow's house, suddenly feeling heavy and tired as the adrenaline spike in his veins subsided. Part of him knew that this was exactly how this particular night would end—Dr. Morrow had been clever enough to evade implication and capture so far, why would they expect her to be lounging around in plain sight, just waiting for them to grab her? Still, his foresight hadn't ebbed the tide of disappointment.

From outside, he heard Jude's voice calling to him. "Hey, Vichie, see if you can find the keys to the car. We need to see if there's any trace of Linnea Charles in here."

"You got it," Jonas Shostakovich yelled back, moving from the living room back into the front foyer, glancing around—people usually discarded their keys within fifteen feet of their house's main entrance, and the way Maura left the garage open implied that she'd come up the walk and through the front door.

True to form, the keys were on a key-rack just past the door. There were a few other sets of keys, but the actual car key was unmistakable. He slipped it off the hook and headed back outside.

Everything that happened next was merely a series of sounds. A rush of wind. A boom. The house itself rattling on its frame slightly, as if a gust of wind had blown through. Jess shrieking Jude's name. It all happened within milliseconds, before he could even move.

However Jonas quickly remedied that, bolting out the front door, his eyes wide with shock as he took in the scene. Jude's long, slender form was crumpled across the driveway, looking so much smaller than he'd ever seen. Jessalyn was already at her side, patting down a few errant flames that licked up her leg and across her arm—but doing so with her bare hands. Dawson and O'Donnell were rushing over, trying to help, and the SWAT team was busy trying to secure the area.

He knew he was running, but he couldn't feel a thing—it was like he floated over to the huddle of people.

He heard himself calling her name, asking Jess if she was alright.

"I-I-I don't know," the younger woman stuttered, her hands fluttering over Jude's body. They were blackened from soot and already shining with dark liquid, but she didn't seem to register the obvious pain. "She—I just—she's not responding."

"She hit her head on the pavement," O'Donnell informed them, gently pulling Jessalyn's hands back. "The boom blew her back, she hit, head and shoulders first—don't try to move her, there could be spinal damage."

From his vantage point, Jonas could see the blood trickling from Jude's ears. Apparently Jess noticed, too, because she gave a strangled noise of panicked dismay as her hand reached forward, towards Jude's face once more. However, she pulled back, stopping herself and trying to heed O'Donnell's warning.

"The EMTs are en route," Dawson spoke up. Two SWAT members appeared with shields, setting them up to protect against any further blasts from the garage.

"This site isn't secure—we need to fall back, fast!" One SWAT member yelled, his voice hoarse with adrenaline.

"We can't move her," Jonas said, moving around to Jude's left side. He gently took her hand between his own, frightened by how heavy and lifeless it felt.

The night air filled with siren wails, and Jess made an animalistic sound of relief, looking around wildly for any sign of their salvation.

"It's gonna be OK, Jude," Jonas reassured his friend, whose eyes were still closed (he told himself it was a better sign than if they were open and devoid of light). "Just hang in there."

He glanced up at Jess, whose face was ripped by fear and helplessness, making sure she fully met his gaze as he quietly repeated, "It's gonna be OK."

She gave a quick nod, taking a shaking breath as she tried to calm herself, for Jude's sake. Dawson was on his feet, calling the medics over. Jonas and Jess were swept aside by the team, who stabilized Jude's neck with a brace before hauling her onto the stretcher.

"I'm going with her," Jess informed them.

The lead medic held out a hand, as if to stop her, "Ma'am, you can't—"

"I have to be with her—she's my partner—"

"Ma'am, we don't—"

"My partner partner, you asshole," Jess was on the verge of shrieking. "I don't care if I have to run behind the goddamn ambulance, I'm going with her."

She held up her hands in a pleading gesture. The EMTs were already wheeling Jude back to the ambulance, and every moment that took her father away from Jessalyn only increased her franticness.

That's when the medic saw the damage to her hands.

"Shit," he said. And he immediately ceased all argument, instead wrapping an arm around her and ushering her to the back of the ambulance.

Jessalyn spared one last glance over her shoulder, at Dawson, whose face had bloomed into an expression of shell-shocked surprise. Of course, he'd overhead the whole exchange, which was almost as explosive as the actual bomb that had just detonated, but he saw the earnestness in Jessalyn's face, and as shocking as her words had been, he knew they were true. However, the grave set of his mouth silently informer her: We're coming back to this, very soon.

Keller didn't respond. She was already climbing into the ambulance, following her partner into whatever happened next.

Dawson glanced over at Shostakovich, whose studied mask implied that he'd been well-aware of this relationship. Now wasn't the time or place to ask such questions, but Dawson briefly wondered what other life-altering secrets his team was keeping from him.

The whole world was going to hell in a handbasket.

Derek & Savannah's House. Washington, D.C.

By the time Derek Morgan had returned from his morning run, Savannah had woken up and thrown together a mélange of breakfast items—a sure sign that she had a rare day off.

"You didn't want to sleep in?" He asked, slipping off his running shoes and leaving them by the front door.

"Nah," came her reply from the kitchen. He followed her voice into the room, offering a quick kiss before gladly accepting the glass of water that she'd poured for him. With a small smile, she added, "Besides, what's the point of staying in bed if you're not there with me?"

He grinned.

Savannah quickly lost her mirth, her voice becoming etched with quiet concern. "This case must be pretty tough."

"It's personal. They're always the hardest," he admitted, downing the glass of water and turning his attention to the pot of coffee that was currently brewing.

"You know how I can tell?" She began dicing up bits of fruit for a smoothie, the rhythmic patting of the knife against the wooden cutting board somehow comforting, reminding Morgan of early evenings in his mother's kitchen. "You went for a run last night, and you're back at it again this morning. You only workout this much when you're stressed. Like you're trying to outrun your problems."

It wasn't an accusation, merely an observation. But it was still true.

Morgan leaned back against the kitchen counter, looking down at his hands. "Maybe it's more about trying to run into a solution. It's not just this case—I'm worried for Reid, of course, but other things are happening, too, and I—"

"Other things? What other things?" Savannah looked up, both concerned and curious.

"Just…." It shouldn't be so hard to talk about it, but it was—he suddenly realized that perhaps Garcia had a point. He felt a frisson of anger for his own hesitancy, because he knew he had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, when it came to his relationship with his best friend, and yet, here he was, acting as if he were admitting some shady secret. He pushed himself forward anyways, "Penelope and I have decided to…to try something new."

"Oh?" Savannah become impossibly still, her eyes wide with an unreadable emotion.

"After all this—Penelope and Sam broke up," Derek found himself unsure of where to start or how to explain it to Savannah. "And apparently, Sam insinuated some unpleasant things about me and Garcia, and now she's got it in her head that we need more distance between us."

Oddly enough, his girlfriend looked relieved at the news. "OK, so…what does that mean, exactly? You two still work together, you'll see each other almost every day—how is the whole distance-thing gonna work?"

"It's more of an emotional distance," he admitted.

"Well, you two are very close, emotionally," Savannah returned her attention to her smoothie-making endeavors. Somehow, she made the word very sound like a reproach.

"Of course we are—she's my closest friend, she gets me like no one else does," he suddenly felt the need to defend his relationship with Garcia. "She got me, from day one, and vice-versa. She's just always been—"

"Your Babygirl?" Savannah looked up at him, one eyebrow arched pointedly.

"That bothers you." The realization hit like a bolt of lightning. Savannah had never been the jealous type, and Morgan thought he'd always been perfectly clear in the fact that he wanted her and her alone—but obviously he'd blinded himself to the truth that his closeness with another woman still upset her.

She gave a light shake of her head, as if trying to shoo the statement away, "I mean, I know you don't—I shouldn't feel this way about it, I know, and I'm sorry that I do, but…but I do."

"Savannah," he moved closer to her, but she made a curt motion with her hand that stopped him.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if reining back a deeper emotion—he'd known her long enough to know that she was trying to remain logical and practical, because she truly wanted him to hear what she was saying. So he quietly waited, giving his full attention.

"Look, from the moment I met her, I knew that she obviously knew you deeper and better than I did. She was—she is—your best friend, and she's known you longer. She knows who you used to be, knows parts of you that I'll never get to see. She's witnessed things in your life that I'll never get to witness, and so I'll never truly understand, at least not like she does. And that can be hard to deal with, at times."

"But you're the one who's going to witness parts of my future," he reminded her gently. "There are still years and years—"

"And can you honestly say that at some point, I will still be a part of your life, and Penelope Garcia won't?" She froze him with her clinically intense stare, as if she were searching for an answer in the lines of his face.

The idea of a future in which Penelope wasn't present sent a stab of fear straight through Morgan's chest.

His reaction must have been answer enough, because Savannah dipped her head again, quietly saying, "Exactly. No matter how long I know you, she'll always have known you first, and longer."

"It's…it's not a competition," he kept his tone low, infusing it with a gentle kindness. He understood her dilemma, but there was nothing he could (or more importantly would) do to remedy it. He realized with utter clarity that this would always be an issue for them, no matter how many times they overcame it, no matter how many reassurances he provided.

"I know," she began tossing bits of fruit into the blender. "And I'm not trying to make it one. I'm just saying, it's still something that's…hard to deal with, at times."

"Have I ever done or said something that made you feel as if you couldn't trust me?" He was genuinely curious. "I mean, has there ever been a time that you felt worried that I might…"

He couldn't even bring himself to finish the question.

"No, of course not," she answered quickly, saving him. But her response was too quick, too emphatic, and that didn't escape his notice, although he kindly didn't point it out.

Damn. Garcia had been right, more so than he'd realized.

"I never want you to feel inferior—to anyone, about anything," he meant it, every word. "And if I ever do something that makes you feel that way, speak up. I don't care what it is, Savannah. Just tell me."

She nodded quickly, pressing her lips into a thin line. And in that moment, he knew that she was lying to him—she wouldn't tell him, not even when he openly asked her to.

Because the one thing she wanted to ask for was the one thing that she knew he couldn't give—Morgan felt the reality long before his brain processed it into coherent thought. She wanted him to give up Penelope, to place her in the role of closest and best friend, and she knew that he could never do that.

He felt so torn that he wanted to scream.

However, the sound that ripped apart the heavy silence of the kitchen was a different kind of wailing—the blender, which whirled and growled as it churned the fruit and yogurt into Savannah's morning smoothie.

He took a moment to just watch his girlfriend, taking in the set of her shoulders and the impassive expression on her face. She wasn't happy, and she was done talking about it, for now. He knew better than to pursue the subject—although he also knew that at some point, they would have to come back to it. Things like this didn't just go away or fix themselves.

His cellphone vibrated in his pants pocket, and he fished it out, his body tensing involuntarily as he saw a text from Will LaMontagne.

However, it was good news—JJ was officially on the mend, and she was being transferred out of ICU that morning.

"I've gotta go," he informed her, raising his voice to be heard over the machine.

She gave a curt nod, studiously focusing on her smoothie. He fought the urge to stay and help unpack her feelings about Garcia. It would have to wait—he needed a shower, a change of clothes, and to be on his way to the hospital as quickly as possible.

It wasn't until he was in the shower that he realized he could have easily told Savannah about JJ—it would have made her smile, made her morning a little brighter. It took half a second longer to realize that he hadn't told her because deep down, he was angry, upset that she'd pull his relationship with Garcia into their own relationship, making the blonde a problem that couldn't be solved.

Of all the things and people in his life, Penelope Garcia was the least problematic. If anything, she was the fix-all solution for most of his problems. The thought that he could give her up—for anything, or anyone—was terrifying. He couldn't imagine a life without his sunny Babygirl, and more importantly, he didn't want to.

Which left him at a crossroads. If it came down to it, who would he choose? Would he step back, letting Savannah claim Penelope's place in his life? Or would he let go of the first woman in a very long time who'd made him see a future, see beyond the four walls of Quantico and into a normal life that he'd always wanted?

He honestly didn't know. And that was probably the scariest part.

In that moment, his mother's wry voice rang in his head. Nothing's ever easy, baby.

He shook his head in response, lightly mumbling, "I ain't got time for this. Not today."

It was, of course, true. But the nagging feeling that someday soon, he would have to make time for this played at the back of his brain for the rest of the morning.

Penelope Garcia's Apartment. Washington, D.C.

The warm weight of an arm around her waist and the sound of light snoring just behind her ear informed Penelope Garcia that Emily Prentiss had snuck into her bed during the night. She fought back a grin as she thought about how much Derek Morgan would pay just to see this, or better yet, to be a part of it.

Penelope knew that she'd woken up just a few minutes before her daily alarm was set to go off—her usual and very-annoying habit—so she simply kept still, allowing Emily a few more minutes of rest. She knew that if she tried to get out of bed, it would instantly wake the brunette, who was the world's lightest sleeper.

However, the rest of the world wasn't as considerate—Penelope's phone rang, and Emily bolted upright, startled but awake.

"It's mine," the blonde assured her friend, reaching over to take her phone off the nightstand. She sat up, glancing at her phone's screen, "It's Will."

"What's happened?" Emily leaned over, her dark brows quirking downward in concern.

"I don't know, I haven't answered yet." Penelope quickly remedied the situation, "Hello?"

"Goooooood morning, Aunt Nelope!" Henry's voice exploded in her ear, the childish excitement and delight completely unmistakable.

"Good morning to you, darling Nenry," Penelope felt a grin spreading across her face once more—no bad news could ever come from her dear godson's mouth, she knew that much. Whatever his reason for calling, it was good.

"Guess where we're going? Guess, guess, guess!"

"Uh, I don't know—"

"To see Mommy!"

There was a light shuffle and then Will's voice came across the line, "We were just calling to let you know that JJ's being moved to a regular room, as we speak. I know she'll want to see you all, as soon as possible."

"Well, the feeling's mutual," Penelope assured him. Emily had her head leaned against Penelope's, listening in.

"Is Emily with you?"

"Yep," Penelope smiled at how well her friend's hubby knew them.

"Tell her to come along, too."

Emily had already heard, because she sprang from the bed and began to get ready.

"And you tell JJ to get ready, because we'll be there ASAP."

"Will do. See ya soon."

"Bye, Aunt Nelope!" Henry interjected in the background.

Penelope hung up with a laugh of relief and delight. Emily had disappeared into the next room—the blonde could hear the flurry of noise as her friend threw together an outfit for the day.

"I'll be ready in ten minutes!" Penelope assured her, sliding out of bed as well.

"Make it five," came the reply, laced with a grin.

"You can't rush perfection, Emily. Hasn't Aaron Hotchner taught you anything?"

"Oh, Christ," her friend groaned from the next room. "I thought we'd let that go already."

"Oh, honey bun, never in a million years will I ever give up on my dreams for your future."

Emily gave a snort of amusement, suddenly reappearing in the doorway, fully-clothed and whipping a brush through her hair.

"Then, for the remainder of the day, can you just let those dreams be silent and unexpressed?"

"I'm not going to publicly embarrass you," Penelope assured her, wincing slightly as she settled against her crutches. "Man, I forgot how sore these things make you."

"When we get to hospital, I'll commandeer a wheelchair," her friend promised. "I'll pull out my Interpol badge, if I have to."

"Using your position as an international authority for my benefit—I like the way you operate, Chief Prentiss."

Emily offered a winningly suave smile, "Anything for you, Babygirl."

Penelope laughed. Emily motioned around the room, "But c'mon. I was serious about that five-minutes-or-less thing."

"Yeah, yeah," Penelope made her way to the closet, already mentally going through her wardrobe to find the day's cotumerie. She decided upon her Batman print dress, knowing that Henry would approve of her choice. "You think you could help me with my hair?"

"Garcia, there's a reason that I always wear mine down or a in a ponytail," Emily drolly informed her.

"Right. No Miss Feminine for you."

"I am feminine." Emily bridled slightly at the accusation, crossing her arms over her chest. "Just…not in the same way as you are."

"Of course, Emmy love. And I know one man in particular who finds you very—"

"I thought we agreed to drop it, Garcia."

"Fine. But maybe you should tell him to stop looking at you like he's the wolf and you're Little Red Riding Hood."

Emily's face went pale, "Aaron Hotchner was not—"

"I never mentioned a name—so why did you automatically assume that I was talking about Hotch?" Penelope turned and pointed at her friend, as if accusing the prime suspect in a theatrical murder-mystery.

"Who else have you been hinting at, ever since last night?" Emily rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Garcia, this was funny at first, but now it's really pushing it. We've got more important things to do."

The blonde was smiling beatifically, gracefully ceding the field of battle—although her ease in letting go came from the smugness of knowing that she was right. Emily gave a sigh and turned back to the kitchen.

The teasing was bearable. Not knowing whether Garcia's taunts came from her own imaginings or from things she'd actually seen noticed was the frustrating part. Emily knew that she couldn't outright ask for clarification, because her question would also be damning proof that Garcia was right on the money.

Why is this such a big deal? Emily's inner voice chided. Who cares if everyone knows? It's not like you work together anymore, it's not like you're doing anything wrong. Why should this stay a secret?

She knew the answer, deep down—because if they ever ended this, she'd want that to be kept a secret, too. She wouldn't want to be known as the woman who'd failed Aaron Hotchner, neither personally or professionally.

Damn her inner voice for quietly asking, Who says you're gonna fail?

Because somehow, the thought of succeeding seemed even more frightening.

Fairfax Medical Center. Washington, D.C.

Anyone walking past Jennifer Jareau's door would think she was the queen holding court, given the number of people waiting in the hallway outside the hospital room. Garcia had immediately dubbed in Bureau-Con, given the sheer number of agents, past and present, currently assembled. Of course, Sandy and Will were there, with Henry, along with Hotch, Morgan, and Callahan. True to her promise, Prentiss had procured a wheelchair for Garcia, and the two had arrived in a flurry of wheels and breathless laughter. Finally Rossi and Blake had shown up, the former bearing polenta pancakes topped with fruit and the latter faux-complaining about her host banging pots and pans at the crack of dawn.

Hotch grinned at Dave's culinary gift. "Did you really bring JJ pancakes?"

"Polenta pancakes," the Italian corrected haughtily. "Look, she needs to regain her strength as quickly as possible, and she can't do that on lousy hospital food."

He quickly swatted away Morgan's curious hand, although he slipped a strawberry off the plate and handed it to Henry, who grinned with delight as he munched on the fruit.

"Hey," Morgan protested.

"He's cuter than you," Rossi informed him.

Henry beamed at the way everyone laughed in agreement, but he offered the last bite of his strawberry to Morgan, who ruffled his hair and politely refused.

"I think it would be best if I just…hung out here," Blake motioned to the hallway. With a slightly pained expression, she added, "It'll look strange if both Prentiss and I are here, just to see her."

"We could say you were in town for a lecture or a conference," Hotch suggested.

Blake shook her head, "I don't think she'd buy it. The coincidence is too high."

Will made a sound of agreement. "As much as I hate shielding her from the people she loves, I have to agree. We're already going to have issues with the fact that she'll notice Spencer's missing, right off the bat."

"He's up at the Academy," Hotch offered, something that wasn't a lie in the least. "He's tied up with some aspects of the case, but he'll be here as soon as he can."

"Yeah, but we all know he'd be the first one here, regardless of what was going on with the case," Emily pointed out, and everyone nodded in agreement.

"Where is Uncle Spence?" Henry piped up.

Penelope pulled him into her lap, thankful that being in a wheelchair also meant she was able to hold her godson without hurting her ankle further. "He'll be here soon."

"How soon?"

His godmother merely kissed his cheek, giving him a hug that squeezed the air from his lungs. "As soon as he can, I promise you."

They decided to go in shifts, in an attempt to refrain from overwhelming JJ. First Sandy, Will, and Henry, followed by Rossi with his breakfast treats, Callahan, and Morgan. Finally, Hotch and Garcia entered.

"We've got a surprise for you," Garcia beamed mischievously.

"Is it better than Rossi's pancakes? Because, seriously, they're pretty awesome." JJ deadpanned. Her head was still bandaged, but the one visible blue eye twinkled happily.

"Oh, I think even Rossi would admit that this surprise is better," Aaron Hotchner assured her, the smile on his face making JJ grin even wider.

"Well, that's a pretty high compliment," she declared.

Hotch leaned out the door, speaking softly to someone in the hallway.

The moment Emily Prentiss' face appeared, JJ let out a squeal of surprise and delight. Her friend was at her side in a second, gently wrapping her into a hug—however JJ didn't reciprocate the gentleness, instead holding on so tightly that Emily thought her neck might break.

"Oh my god, are you really here?" JJ was still holding on, as if she was afraid Emily might float away.

"I am," Emily's voice was muffled by JJ's shoulder, and despite the uncomfortableness of her current pose, she wouldn't have moved for the world.

"How—when—why?"

Emily laughed at her friend's delighted confusion, finally pulling back but still sitting on the edge of the bed—that was a much distance as she'd allowed between them. "Hotch called me. I came as soon as I could."

It wasn't a lie, technically—but she still felt a pang of guilt for the fact that she probably wouldn't be here if Reid hadn't been in trouble.

"I'm so glad you're here," JJ was smiling so widely that her one visible eye was a mere slit.

Hotchner glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry, but we've got to go. There's still some—"

"Wait, where's Spence?" JJ looked around, her smile fading slightly.

"He's at the Academy, with Cruz," Emily offered easily. Again, technically not a lie.

"They'll be here as soon as they can," Hotch added gently.

JJ gave a slight nod, although worry had begun to set in the lines of her face.

From the hallway, Derek Morgan shifted into the doorframe, giving a slight motion for Hotch to join him.

"I'm glad you're doing better," the BAU chief offered one last smile, reaching out to give JJ's hand a reassuring squeeze—and action that had him leaning over Emily Prentiss. Penelope Garcia noted that Emily didn't shift out of the way—obviously she was quite comfortable being in such close contact with Aaron's chest. Garcia fought a wicked grin at the realization, and suddenly realized that she needed to run all of her new data by Morgan, as soon as possible.

"Well, I'm going to skedaddle, too," she announced, and Hotch gallantly took the handles of her wheelchair, moving her forward so that she could reach out and pat JJ's hand as well.

"Surely you're not working on this case," JJ looked concerned. "You should still be on leave."

"I am still technically out of the game. I'm just…Morgan is my ride, so if he's heading back to Quantico, he'll have to take me home first." Garcia surprised herself with how easily she lied. With a smile, she added, "Besides, you and Em have way more catching up to do."

Emily held up her hands, "I am the only one here on a mini vacation, so I can be a total slacker and spend all day watching soap operas with you."

JJ hummed in amusement at the thought, "Just like that time we got super-hungover after ladies night at—"

"Oh, god, don't remind me," Emily rolled her eyes heavenward. "Just thinking about it makes my head spin."

Garcia and Hotch offered one last round of farewells before leaving the room.

JJ waited until they were fully gone before turning to her friend with a teasing smile. "So…Hotch was the one who called you?"

Her friend's dark eyes flicked to the ceiling in a facsimile of an eyeroll. "Leave it."

"Oh, not a chance."

Emily tamped down a smile and a wave of frustration—another person on the hook-up-with-Hotch bandwagon. Just what she needed.

Derek Morgan moved further down the hall, obviously expecting Hotch to follow him, which he did. Once it was just the two of them, in relative seclusion, Morgan spoke, his tone low, "I think something's happened since last night."

"What do you mean?" Hotch's face skewed into an expression of concerned confusion.

His teammate glanced over his shoulder, back down the hall. "I went to go grab some coffee, a few minutes ago—"

Hotch noted that aforementioned coffee was nowhere in sight. Something was definitely up.

"And on the way, I saw Agent Keller in the waiting room."

"Maybe she's here to interview one of the agents who was hurt in the bombing," Hotch's tone implied that he was merely trying to find an explanation, although he didn't believe the one he'd just offered.

"I don't think so. She was in the waiting room reserved for surgery." Morgan shifted slightly, adding, "And, her hands were bandaged. Like she'd been injured."

Now Hotch's concern deepened—as did his frown. "You're sure about this?"

Morgan gave a curt nod.

Aaron Hotchner glanced down the hall, in the direction of the surgical wing, with which he'd become all too familiar, over the years.

"Perhaps we should take a walk."

Again, Morgan nodded in agreement.

"Fellas," David Rossi sidled up to them, his hands in his pockets in a completely innocent gesture, although his tone implied that he knew they were up to something.

Glancing back at the rest of the crew, he saw Callahan, Blake, and Garcia all watching them with expectant expression.

Sometimes he realized how hard it was to work with a bunch of people highly-trained in behavioral cues.

Morgan quickly caught Rossi up to speed on what he'd seen, and the older man simply gave a grave nod.

"I can't believe I'm the voice of caution here," Rossi spoke gently. "But if Keller is waiting in the surgical ward, it can't be good news—I don't think she'll exactly welcome a visit from inquiring minds."

Hotch had to agree with the assessment. Still, Morgan countered, "We'll make it look unplanned. I'll walk by, notice her as if by accident, then go over to see if she's—"

"Or you could just ask Dawson," Rossi nodded down the hall. At the end of the corridor, there was a nurses' station, where Jack Dawson was leaned over the counter, obviously asking for some kind of information. "Looks like he just got here."

Hotch was already halfway down the hall, his long, purposeful strides easily devouring the distance. Morgan moved to follow, but Rossi lightly held him back.

"Let's keep it mano-a-mano." The older man suggested. And despite his screaming curiosity, Morgan agreed.

"What's up?" Kate Callahan raised her voice slightly, gaining their attention.

"Not sure yet," Rossi returned nonchalantly as he and Morgan moved back towards the three women.

Blake kept her arms tightly crossed over her chest, like a shield. She was keeping quiet, afraid that JJ might hear her voice in the hallway and realize that she was here, which would only lead to more questions. Morgan had assured her that all was well with her former colleague, but Blake had fought the urge to see for herself.

Rossi must have understood, or at least sensed her general mood, because he reached over, lightly patting her shoulder in a gesture of comfort and solidarity.

Keeping her eyes on Hotch's retreating form, her face shouted the question that her mouth didn't dare to whisper.

What the hell is going on?

"When you are going through hell—keep going."

~Winston Churchill.