CHAPTER 33: Omnivore (Season 4, episode 18)

Character(s): Hotch, Foyet. And Rossi, briefly, along with occasional mention of other team members.

A/N: As always, spoilers for the episode itself, especially in regards to the revelation of the unsub. References to cases, unsubs, and events from the episodes "Won't Get Fooled Again", "No Way Out", "No Way Out II", "Doubt", "In Birth and Death", and "Damaged" as well…I'm hoping you all appreciate the strange, roundabout way those episodes tie into how this particular episode will be dealt with. And yes, as the character list for this chapter notes, we'll be delving back into another notable unsub's psyche later on. Yay? There will be a bit of strong language and some reference to disturbing imagery later on in the chapter, so heads up for that.

Quick thanks once again to FirefliesFlash for looking over some of this chapter for me. And to angelcobra: You are lovely and I enjoyed meeting you.

And now, on to the drama! This'll be a bit of a lengthy one.

"Passion is a positive obsession. Obsession is a negative passion." – Paul Carvel

Hotch: "This case…"

Rossi: "It stuck with you."

Hotch: "I kept coming back to it over the years."

ooo

February 1998:

Aaron Hotchner had seen plenty of crime scenes before.

As a profiler, he'd been called in on quite a few cases, and as a prosecuting attorney he'd had to study, and show, a few gory photos when he handled criminal cases in court. There were some rough ones, to be sure. The first time he ever saw a photo of a victim, one who'd been nearly dismembered, he'd had to excuse himself from the room. The first time he talked to a criminal in person, he wound up gripping the edges of the table to keep from decking the guy.

He'd been learning quickly, though, trying to develop a thicker skin, especially once he entered the profiling world. David Rossi's books had given him some ideas of how to handle each crime scene he came across, as did the methods Max Ryan and Jason Gideon had employed throughout the years. It all eventually paid off, too. He became a newly minted senior agent, and now he was doing everything in his power to put forth a good example for the younger recruits.

Still, when he and his fellow teammates had entered the latest crime scene of their current case, when they'd seen Renata Joyce and Keira Calder practically eviscerated, with Keira being nearly decapitated, Hotch still had to take a moment to turn away. It was always especially tough when the victims were young, and these women…their lives had barely begun. When Detective Tom Shaunessy had returned to the station after delivering the tragic news to the victims' families, his face ashen, the devastation of it all seemed to truly sink in for Hotch then.

Of course, it didn't help that this unsub had quite the tally of victims racked up prior to this moment, leaving local citizens in an obvious panic, not knowing when or where he'd strike next. Hotch was having a hard time fathoming the idea of someone killing twenty people as it was, and given that the death toll was extremely likely to increase, time was clearly of the essence. If they didn't stop this guy, this…Boston Reaper, as he was currently called (Hotch could already hear the ranting of those about the cutesy nicknames the media ran with in regards to the criminals – this guy may have named himself, but the media had quite the fun with it), this crime spree might never stop. They might never catch this guy. Those thoughts were enough to send deep shivers through Hotch.

The rest of the team had been grumbling about the lack of sufficient evidence, and he deeply empathized with them. All they pretty much had at that point was the testimony of a poor man named George Foyet. He'd lost his girlfriend to the Reaper, and had nearly become a victim himself – everyone couldn't stop talking about his miraculous survival. Investigators had tried to talk to him off and on, but Hotch had dealt with enough victims by that point to know that trying to get information from them could often be like pulling teeth. No matter how much they wanted to help, the fear and trauma would sometimes just be far too palpable, and understandably so. That appeared to be the case here.

But Hotch wasn't deterred. Sure, more evidence was always helpful, but he liked a challenge, too, and he was ready and raring to go on delving into this intense, disturbing mystery…

…until one day six weeks into the investigation, when his unit chief came in and informed the team that they would be leaving Boston that day. Going back home to Quantico instead, to focus on other cases.

Hotch noticed the questioning looks amongst his teammates, the irritation at having been called out only to be sent back so soon, and once again, he sympathized. Once his chief left the room, Hotch followed right behind, cornering the other man in a less active part of the police station.

"I don't understand. What's going on?" he'd demanded, his voice quiet but firm.

"Didn't you hear me? We're leaving."

"I know that. What I want to know is why?"

"Agent Hotchner, this isn't really the time or place to –" the chief began, his eyes darting past Hotch to the rest of the officers milling about the station.

"Tell me. Now."

The unit chief's eyes snapped back toward Hotch as he raised his eyebrows. Always the way. The minute they become senior agents, they suddenly think they're in charge. "Shaunessy simply said we're not needed anymore. There's just not enough evidence," he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a child. He shrugged then, the look on his face seeming to say, What do you want me to do about it?

"But…he's killed twenty people. He'll kill more."

"Shaunessy doesn't seem to think that'll happen."

Hotch frowned, a confused expression on his face. "How could he possibly be sure of that?"

"I don't know, Agent Hotchner. All he told me was that we're not needed anymore. There haven't been any more victims in recent weeks, and the guy seems to have just disappeared. If new evidence comes up –"

"- or if he kills somebody –"

"Or if anything else happens…" The man glared at Hotch as he began to talk over him, "…then we can come back if they request our services once again. In the meantime, there's nothing more we can do."

Hotch's posture slacked as he glanced at a spot behind the other man. "But…" He inwardly cringed at how lame his voice suddenly sounded.

"But nothing, Hotchner. We're done. Let's go. Do not argue with me on this anymore." And with that, the unit chief turned and left.

The night Hotch returned home to Quantico, Haley knew something was up. Despite her pleas for him to come to bed and get some proper rest, her husband sat in the living room with a notepad and began scribbling notes.

When she came downstairs the next morning, Aaron was still writing.

ooo

March 2003:

"Today marks five years since the infamous Boston Reaper suddenly ended his crime spree. We're here near one of his final crime scenes in an attempt to retrace his steps –"

"Five years on: what happened to the Boston Reaper?"

"Our special guests today are the family members of one of the Boston Reaper's victims. Please welcome the parents of Renata Joyce –"

Hotch flipped off the TV and sighed. He knew his unit chief was going to be quite busy today, fielding phone calls and requests for interviews. It was times like these when Hotch found himself rather glad he wasn't in the man's shoes. He'd already decided he had no plans to participate in the media circus. Partially because he didn't trust the media all that much – they were often so quick to spin comments and misquote people, and they were all too happy to drag any possible emotional moment through the wringer as much as possible in the hopes of getting that "exclusive! Dramatic! Emotional!" interview.

But his hesitation was also due to the fact that he wasn't ready to divulge any of his own information at this time. Yes. He had information. Well, scratch that – it was more theories than anything else. Still, though, while those theories looked promising, they weren't anywhere close to ready for sharing.

Ever since he'd been pulled off the case all those years ago, Hotch had spent time off and on forming his own private profile. Nobody else on his team knew about it, nor did his unit chief. He never brought the notes he'd made to work, lest anyone there stumble upon them. Instead, he kept them in a safe in his office, knowing full well Haley respected his right to privacy enough to where she wouldn't pry. All he had to say was "It's work-related" and leave it at that.

Someday, perhaps, if and when he felt comfortable enough with the profile, he would consider sharing it. Especially if he was certain it would crack the case – the families could finally find justice and they could put this Reaper guy away for good!

But for now, he just didn't want to be seen as one of those guys. The guys who grabbed on to a case and just could not let it go, to the point where people began to worry about their emotional and physical health, even their mental stability.

Hotch wasn't like that. He just wanted the practice, that's all. If he was going to be a top profiler, he needed to hone his craft, didn't he? And besides, if he brought the information to his unit chief now, he'd get the exact same dismissal he got back in 1998. Or even worse – his boss may be so irritated that he kept pushing that he'd punish him somehow.

Hotch vowed to himself he'd do a little more work on the profile tonight. It was the least he could do to honor the victims today, after all.

ooo

March 2005:

Hotch stared at the chair across the table in the conference room as he waited for the rest of his team to come in.

He'd never fully get used to people shuffling in and out of the Bureau. His team from his early days had all long ago dispersed elsewhere. Some quit altogether, just not being able to withstand the stresses of the job. Even if he understood people accepting new promotions, or quitting for personal reasons, it never got any easier to say goodbye, to have to train new people. The current team he ran, the one that had formed within the last couple years with agents Morgan, Reid (Dr. Reid), and Gideon, had seemed to be working okay of late. He'd started to think that maybe this one might be stable.

Then the bombing case with Adrian Bale happened. Six agents had died at Bale's hands thanks to his trickery towards Gideon. And Gideon had left as a result. Not permanently…at least, Hotch didn't think it would be permanent…he hoped. Right now the man was on "medical leave".

But even if this was temporary, it still threw everything into turmoil. Despite the fact that Hotch was now the team's boss, Gideon had been around in the BAU for what had seemed like forever. He was the one everyone looked to for advice, the expert to end all experts, save for perhaps Max Ryan. And now he was gone.

What troubled Hotch the most was watching someone who'd seen it all, who'd dealt with the worst of the worst, break down so quickly and so dramatically. Over one case, over one unsub. As tragic as that Bale case had been, they'd seen plenty of things equally as bad, if not worse, and Gideon in particular had years' worth of horrors at his disposal.

Of course, Hotch understood why this case affected Gideon so.

The idea that an unsub could manipulate an FBI agent so easily, get under their skin, causing them to question their abilities and their trust in people, was a terrifying thought. Hotch had come close to letting that happen a time or two on a case himself – in a way, he was still letting it happen, actually. His mind flitted back to that Reaper case, the one that was still haunting him to this day. He wanted to solve it at some point so as to give the victims' families their much deserved closure.

But he also knew he wanted to close the case to prove he hadn't wasted his time. To flex his skills. To show that bastard that he was not going to outwit an FBI agent. It was the first case he'd worked as a lead agent, and he wanted the satisfaction of seeing something that big closed.

Where did the line between determination and obsession begin? Or end?

As Hotch heard the voices of his team as they began to filter into the conference room, he quietly shoved those questions aside. Just as he always did.

ooo

October 2005:

Gideon had done it. He'd finally beat Bale at his own game.

Hotch couldn't miss the smirk on Gideon's face the entire way back home. He hadn't seen Gideon that relaxed and content in what had seemed like a very, very long time.

"You did good, Gideon," he said quietly.

The older man turned to look at Hotch then, his eyes actually light and full of hope. "I feel like I can finally start putting it all behind me now," was all he'd simply said.

Gideon's excitement at finally finding closure with Bale had left Hotch rejuvenated and refocused. When he returned home, he pulled out the profile. It'd been sitting dormant for a while, partially due to the usual hectic workload, as well as him trying to bring new people on board at work. Plus, he was about to be a father soon. Baby facts and information filled his mind as often as facts and information on unsubs did nowadays.

Tonight, however, he wanted to strike while the iron was hot. He eagerly sat down at his desk, ready to glance over everything and declare it good to go. Maybe his team could give it a look as well.

Hotch barely got through the first page before shaking his head. No. No, this wasn't right. He'd had a few more cases similar to the Reaper between then and now. Thanks to them, to further psychological studies, as well as Dr. Reid and his expansive knowledge of other killers similar to this unsub, it became clear some revisions were in order.

He spent that night going over everything in red ink, only stopping to aid Haley whenever she called.

ooo

May 2007:

Frank Breitkopf was dead.

Most people often assumed that all law enforcement welcomed the death of the violent criminals they chased. The scum of the earth was gone. Nobody had to worry about them anymore.

Most people would've been wrong. Some were just fine with killing them off, yes. Others, however, felt death let the killers off far, far too easily.

Hotch studied the face of Jason Gideon on the way back to Quantico. It was clear as day that Gideon was in the latter camp at the moment. Yes, Breitkopf was gone, unable to kill anyone else.

But he never had to answer to those whom his crimes most affected. The parents of Tracey Bell. The kids he'd abducted off that school bus. The families of those whom he'd murdered. Gideon.

Gideon had spent months following this guy. He'd tracked him to Nevada. Hotch had promised Gideon that they'd get Breitkopf after he disappeared, and he knew that Gideon had been trying to analyze where and when he'd strike next.

Hotch was right in one sense. They did finally catch up to Frank. But Frank took himself out. They needed him in the hopes that maybe one day he'd reveal where the victims were, how many there were, so that families could finally, finally get closure.

None of that would happen now. And Hotch knew that Gideon would spend time in his office, trying to think of all the victims he had saved, only to begin thinking of the ones that he'd failed to help instead.

That time, when Hotch returned home, he'd come across the profile again when cleaning his desk. Apparently Haley had noticed that his office was getting uncharacteristically messy, and she informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he should probably clean it up now.

First Strauss chews me out, now you, too, Haley?

He'd take a look at the file. Later. Maybe. There were too many other issues to deal with right now.

ooo

September 2007:

Gideon was gone. Again.

Not officially. He just hadn't come to work the last few days.

But he also hadn't called anyone. And Hotch had a feeling he knew what that meant. Or at least, he thought he did.

He'd been expecting another breakdown. Who wouldn't, after such a tragic loss? Going back to work after someone you loved died would always be tough in and of itself, but in this job? With what they did? What they saw? Hotch didn't blame Gideon one bit for wanting to stay away. If anything ever happened to Haley or Jack, after all…

What he hadn't expected, though, was for Gideon to just up and quit altogether. Yet that's precisely what happened not long after that case with the college in Arizona. Apparently Gideon had cleared out his entire cabin, leaving only his gun and credentials behind. He'd also left a letter.

Hotch tried not to show it in front of his team, but the whole thing with Gideon had rattled him deeply. Add in Morgan still being haunted by Buford, Reid still dealing with the aftermath of Hankel, Greenaway finally snapping after everything with Garner, and Hotch was even more aware than usual of the ways an unsub could devastate a person's life long beyond the actual crime itself. The line between moving on and breaking down was hard to determine sometimes, it seemed.

Upon returning home from their most recent case, Hotch was startled to find his place dark and eerily silent. His exploration of the house didn't turn up a note, but he didn't need one to know what had happened.

Haley was gone. So was Jack.

Neither of them appeared to be coming back.

ooo

April 2008:

Knock, knock. "Hey."

"Hey, Dave." Hotch let one of his rare smiles slip at the sight of his friend standing in the doorway to his office. "Come in. Have a seat."

"Oh, thanks, but I'm not staying long. I just wanted to know how things went with Hardwick?"

"You heard Reid. It was uneventful."

Rossi stared at Hotch, a disbelieving look on his face.

Hotch sighed. "It got a little tense," he confessed. "We wound up locked in the cell with him." Rossi's brows went up slightly at the news. "Luckily Reid was able to distract Hardwick until the guards came."

"How so?"

"He spent thirteen minutes talking to him."

"That sounds like Reid, all right," Rossi replied dryly. "What did you do?"

Hotch hesitated for a moment. "Not as much as I could've," he finally admitted.

"What do you mean?"

"I was ready to fight him."

"You serious?" Rossi's brows went up even higher. He understood, of course, why the very idea would bother Hotch, but he couldn't help but feel a small amount of admiration for his friend regardless. He would've probably done the same thing, after all.

"Yes." Hotch looked down at his desk then. "I don't know what came over me. I didn't want to talk, I just wanted to fight. I could barely focus on discussing the case."

"I have noticed you've seemed a little…distracted lately," Rossi noted in a knowing tone. "But I didn't want to say anything." He looked at Hotch amusedly, trying not to chuckle as Hotch threw him a mock glare.

"Is that why you're here? To check up on me?" Hotch asked, trying, and failing, to show any offense in his tone.

Rossi shrugged. "Maybe. I'm just saying, I've been there. I know what it's like when your personal life distracts you at work, or work distracts you at home. Just…take it easy, okay? If you need a break, let us know."

So you don't end up like Gideon. "I'll keep that in mind," Hotch said, letting out a bit of a sigh. Time to change the subject. "So…I hear you finally got that case in Ohio solved?"

"How did you - ?"

"Garcia told me."

"Quite the chatterbox, isn't she?" Rossi remarked. "But yes. We got the guy. Not what I expected, either. Seemed this all happened because he only wanted to play with the kids."

"…what?" Hotch gave him a disbelieving look.

"He was mentally challenged. One of those guys who didn't know his own strength. When the parents saw him in the house he got spooked and attacked."

"Wow." Certainly wasn't expecting that. "How are the kids?"

"They're okay. As okay as you can be having to relive a twenty year old tragedy, at least." He fell silent for a moment, looking reflective. "They want to keep in touch."

"That's great, Dave." Another genuine smile from Hotch. "I'm glad it all worked out for you."

"Me, too." Rossi paused thoughtfully. "You know, you've got a good team out there. They're quite helpful. Who knows, maybe there's other unsolved cases we can get them to work on."

Hotch hoped his face remained neutral at that moment. "Yeah. Maybe."

Another brief silence before Rossi spoke up again. "Well, I suppose I should get back to work." He turned to head out the door.

"Hey, Dave?" Hotch called. Rossi turned back to look at him.

"Thanks."

"Anytime." Rossi smiled briefly before he turned and headed out, closing the door behind him.

Hotch stood then, walking over to the bottom drawer of his file cabinet. He flipped through until he found that file. It was looking pretty good by this time – not perfect, there were still some holes in the case. But he had collected all the evidence he was able to find, and the profile was looking much more fleshed out now.

Rossi managed to solve a case that had happened twenty years ago. It'd only been ten since this one for Hotch.

He looked towards his office window, down into the bullpen, where he saw some of his team milling about or working on reports.

Maybe, indeed.

ooo

March 2009:

Hotch was having a serious case of deja vu.

It was 1998 all over again. Different team, perhaps, but the reactions were just the same.

He scanned the faces of the six other people in the bullpen. JJ looked almost…guilty. She was the one who had to be the bearer of bad news, the one who had to inform everybody about Foyet's escape from prison. In just two words, she'd made it clear: this was far from over. In fact, things would likely only get worse.

Hotch tried to catch her eye. It's not your fault. It's his, and his alone.

Morgan looked…well…pissed. The man being discussed on the TV screen above them had his credentials. His personal information. The team had just seen what Foyet could do once he had such sensitive materials in his possession. Morgan's voice betrayed his growing fear and helplessness, though, when he finally spoke.

"He said he'd be more famous than we knew. He was right." Hotch suppressed a shudder at that.

Hotch could already practically hear the wheels turning in Reid's brain as the young genius kept glancing back and forth between the papers in his hand and the TV screen. Mentally replaying the various aspects of the team's work in Boston – every possible conversation, every piece of evidence, the large amount of blood in that house (how much did Foyet lose during this latest escape?), the symbols and messages… Hotch could only hope that Reid wouldn't wind up overworking his mind in the process. If only I'd had someone like him around in '98. Maybe…

Prentiss seemed overwhelmed, and Hotch didn't blame her one bit. So many gruesome murders, then Morgan was nearly killed by the unsub himself, then everyone finds out the man they believed to be innocent is the Reaper…and now this? Proof there were days it really did not pay to get out of bed.

Garcia had that familiar panicked expression. Her team was in danger. Again. They had to track this guy. Again. He was going to kill more innocent people. Again. And she had to do all new research on Foyet. Again.

"We're gonna find him, right?" Her voice had sounded so quiet, so fragile, and Hotch hated that he couldn't give her an immediately reassuring answer.

And Rossi? He was quietly standing next to Hotch, and Hotch could feel his gaze on him.

We'll get him. Rossi's familiar refrain passed through Hotch's mind then. Almost as though his colleague were trying to comfort him, and perhaps the others, telepathically.

Hotch didn't look at Rossi, though. Better not to give away the fact that he didn't believe his old friend anymore.

Times like these, George Foyet wished he'd planned things a little differently.

He could've chosen to have his escape take place at the courthouse the day of his trial instead. It would've given him a wonderful chance to see the look on Hotch's face as he realized Foyet had slipped out of his grasp yet again.

Instead, now all he could do was merely imagine what Hotch must be thinking, feeling, what his expression must look like at this very moment. He knew full well the guy was watching the news right now, knew he was seeing this whole thing unfold before his very eyes.

Oh, well. He'd come up with a pleasurable image of some sort. He always did have quite the imagination, after all. And if he could sneak in a thought of that bald guy, who thought he was just so tough, fuming over this as well? All the better.

Besides, he wasn't about to stay in that jail any longer than he had to. He had places to go. People to…see. In a matter of speaking.

Damn, he felt good. Ten years lying low, he'd nearly had a fleeting worry at the start that he might be a little rusty after all this time. But no, it seemed he was as slick as ever. The helpful motorist routine was admittedly something of a mixed bag for him. He loved being able to draw his victims in so quickly, but at the same time, it was almost too easy a ruse. The police cop one provided a little more of a challenge – too many citizens had been warned in recent years about people posing as cops, and so they weren't always automatically going to stop for any ol' flashing light that came along. Or at least, not until they got to a lighted, semi-public area. He had to work a little harder with that plan.

Still, though, it was quite fun to be out there again, so he didn't mind the challenge, or lack thereof, as much this time. He got to play so many different characters – it was amazing how many types of people your average person would so quickly trust, either to help or for help!

He had to have that average, unassuming, innocent "Foyet the survivor" character, of course, the one who moved all over the place – ironically, that character was his tether. It kept him organized with his facts and his "backstory", allowed him to be so open about the case, to see the attention he was getting, without getting in trouble.

But that guy could get really boring really fast, too. He was so wimpy and jittery and anxious and, well, kind of pathetic. These other characters had an edge, an intrigue, exciting, albeit fleeting, lives of their own. The unpredictability of it all…it was so thrilling.

Just like that bus shooting, for instance. That one hadn't been planned, but that made it even better. No pretenses with characters or ruses that time; instead, he just hopped right on and scared the shit out of everybody right off the bat. And the messages scrawled on the windows, the sheer brutality of it all, the array of trophies he could pick to take with him…it was perhaps a little over the top, but it got results. He knew that agent and his team were not going to be able to resist those clues, knew that agent's guilt over not taking his deal would drive him to analyze the crap out of that crime scene. Like moths to a flame.

That night, he'd felt almost as good as he had all those years ago…with that Bertram girl…

ooo

He gazed at Amanda. Or tried his best to, anyway…he was growing very sleepy, after all. But he struggled to stay awake, to keep an eye on her. Just in case.

He admired her big, dark doe eyes. Her soft, pink lips. That long neck, her perfect curves… She really was such a lovely woman.

Foyet had been amazed at how quickly the color had drained from those eyes. Her mouth hung open now, her pink lips stained. Her pale neck was decorated red, too. Almost like Christmas garland. Actually, her whole body was practically swimming in the dark color. As was his. Foyet hissed as he attempted to make himself more comfortable in the car. He glanced at his watch. It'd been almost fifteen minutes since he called the cops.

Kind of hope they show up soon. These cuts hurt like a bitch.

The moment he heard the sirens, saw the flashing lights, George Foyet smiled.

Showtime.

ooo

He waited ever so patiently in the hospital after that night, taking his sweet time to heal, watching the nurses and doctors tend to him. They were bright and cheery and enthusiastic about making sure he got better and got right back out there! And, of course, they were so very sorry to hear about his loss.

Such stupid people.

He waited one whole year after that for the knock on the door. The one that informed him that they'd finally figured it all out and he was under arrest.

And yet, nothing. He'd tried again with a few more murders. Some attention, some fear, but still, nobody caught on that it was him. Clearly that had to be a sign.

It wasn't until the FBI came in in 1998 that he finally felt something resembling a twinge of fear. Not because he felt remorse for what he'd done, oh, no. He was willing to admit some of the joy had gone out of his activities, sure...those injuries he'd sustained after everything with Amanda had worn him down more than he thought they would. But he still wasn't ready to give up altogether. He wasn't too familiar with these…profilers, but they seemed at least a little sharper than the local police did, and he could imagine them breathing down his neck in the near future.

And if Foyet was going to take a break, he would be damned if he'd be taking that break in prison.

That's when the idea first came to Foyet. Out of everyone on the local police force, Detective Shaunessy seemed to be the only one aside from the FBI who might have a legitimate chance at catching him. He seemed quite hellbent on solving this case.

Fortunately, though, he was also getting up there in years. Maybe Foyet could make a deal with him of some sort. Just for a little while. Give himself a chance to take a break for a short while, Shaunessy could send these FBI people away and back off, and then when Shaunessy croaked, Foyet could pick up where he'd left off.

The message he'd sent the detective was simple and to the point.

"If you stop hunting me, I'll stop hunting them."

And so the wait began. Foyet may have laid low, but that didn't mean he couldn't still have a little fun. He stayed in Boston, kept a close (very, very close) eye on Shaunessy, just to make sure he was holding up his end of the bargain, too.

To his credit, he was. But it was costing the detective dearly. He grew increasingly ill and stressed out, and the way he kept looking over his shoulder from time to time when he was out and about told Foyet he knew he was lurking nearby.

He had to admittedly admire the detective's strength, though…the guy held on far longer than he probably should've. Foyet hadn't planned on waiting ten years, really, but he had made a promise. And he was always one to keep a promise.

Besides, in a way, he was killing Shaunessy, and doing so very slowly and torturously at that, without even actually having to do anything! So as long as Foyet was still able to get his kicks in some form or another, that made the long wait well worth it.

Shaunessy wasn't a problem anymore, however. This current BAU team was his newest nemesis.

Now that he realized Aaron Hotchner had been studying him for the past ten years, and most importantly, now that he himself was free…it appeared George Foyet had a few new promises to start making.

"...an obsession is a way for damaged people to damage themselves more." ― Mark Barrowcliffe, The Elfish Gene: Dungeons, Dragons And Growing Up Strange

Reviews/critiques/etc. appreciated, as always!