Disclaimer:Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.

Author's Note: So there really isn't any excuse for the long wait of this one, but aside from a lot of personal crisis and stress, my computer deleted all the progress I had made on the following chapters. Not a problem! I have a flash drive...except idiot me hadn't saved it properly and...while the story was written in it's fullness at one point...I accidentally lost it all. So I'm very sorry and thanks for all your patience, support and reviews. The rest of this story should be posted shortly.

xXx

Chapter Thirty-Seven: I'll Think of You

'You know that place between awake and sleeping, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you.' -J.M. Barrie

xXx

Reid groaned, raising his hand up and rubbing his heavy eyes, groggy and his brain fuzzy with sleep. His body ached, and he found his shoulder blades stiff and his legs struck with the sensation of pins and needles. He had vague chunks of memory surfacing in his mind, talking to JJ, filled with insurmountable anxiety, everything blurry.

'Must've had a flashback,' he thought, the heat rising in his cheeks. Great. What a Prince Charming he had to have been, professing his love, regretting it, trying to get away and then having yet another episode. Was it too much to just once not succumb to the awkwardness that had plagued him since childhood? Why couldn't he be more like Morgan, confident and sure of himself, handsome and the apple of every girl's eye? Or even like Hotch. Wasn't he the quintessential man of mystery, the dark and brooding handsome stranger whom a woman would think of, long after a chance encounter, nothing more than a passing glance during a jog, or the businesslike greetings of meeting in an office? Hotch was the type that would raise questions in the mind- why does he look so solemn? What is it about his eyes that can manage that balance of precision, caution and safety? What made him a force to be reckoned with, but a strong pair of arms to hold you, a lean torso to defend you from whatever UnSub crawled from the cracked surface of God's most imperfect men?

No, Reid was the type of guy you looked at and laughed at his sinewy limbs, extremities that were sometimes cumbersome and foreign to his body as he tripped over his own feet. He wasn't the one you felt safe with, the one you knew could protect you. He was the kid that only had girls partner with him in class because he was a guaranteed A.

He knew no one was perfect, and he was proud of his intellect, however unsociable facts about tedious chemical reactions were. But, like everyone, he sometimes wished he could abandon who he was and start over, fresh, with a new template. If only for a few hours.

Maybe it was better he had created a fool of himself in front of JJ. She deserved better than him, someone like Morgan or Hotch, or maybe a mixture of the two. Certainly anyone but a lanky genius who know the creases and slightly uneven ridges of paper in his books better than he did the function of social interaction.

"She's better off," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Who is?"

He froze. This was how it started wasn't it? Insanity? Was it possible his episode had not ended as he thought, and he was thrown back once more into the hell and torment that was his mind? He knew how it worked, that hallucinations- auditory and visual were nothing more than the result of memories mixing with the functioning cables of your brain, confusing the voices of loved ones, sounds from long ago, images from a movie watched in early childhood, for your surroundings.

That voice- it belonged to Jason Gideon. His mentor, his colleague, his stand in father figure. The man who, just like his biological dad, left without a word, a note the only sign of thought. Surely, his brain was betraying him again.

'JJ definitely deserves better,' he thought with a tight lipped frown, reality setting in. He should've known it was too good to be true. He should've known he would be dragged back once more by his fractured mind and tainted blood, the blood of diseased genetics that made him what he was, what he would forever be.

"Spencer?" the voice- Gideon's voice- spoke again.

He thought about it, just ignoring it, turning on his side and hoping it would go away of it's own accord. But his curiosity got the better of him, and, in hopes of maybe, just maybe seeing a tangible body before him, he uncovered his hands from his eyes and looked to the side.

A table had been placed to the side of the bed, one of the feeding trays that was designed with a lever system so that the height could be adjusted for multifunction use. Atop the table was a portable wooden chessboard, the small, nickel hinges in the middle holding the two pieces of the travel case together. The pieces were all arranged, meticulously and with almost compulsive placement. Not a single rook or pawn was off by even one degree, the painted black pieces lined up on the side towards Reid, the glare of cheap, industrial lighting reflecting of the curved surfaces.

An army of wooden pieces, carved into simple icons, protected Reid from the opposing army of similarly designed pieces, polished in a slight off-white color. And, guarding their own master, behind the army sat Jason Gideon, a stern look in place, but not at all unfriendly.

Reid swallowed, his throat tight around his esophagus. He hadn't expected this. He was fully prepared to turn around and confront air, the stray particles caught in the sun's rays. An empty place before him, filled with nothing but the promise of a tortured mind. But not this.

He didn't truly think he would see the man that the voice belonged, in such clarity.

All he could hear was the hum of old pipes, the squeak of nursing shoes on the linoleum floors outside his room, and the thrum of his veins, the oxygen that flooded through his system and filled his lungs. Air escaped him. Words escaped him.

With nothing left at his disposal, he simply stared, his hazel eyes unblinking as they quivered over the form, searching for signs of deceit. But it seemed solid, and sturdy, and entirely too real.

They always did though. His hallucinations. How could he trust this, when everything else was so inconsistent?

After a tense moment of silence, Gideon finally spoke, his voice and the lips that moved simultaneously enrapturing the young man's attention. "Perhaps you would like to make the first move?" he offered, the gravelly texture to his voice pulling at Reid's insides, twisting the still weak organs. It was so perfect. So wonderfully Gideon. No hallucination could manage that tone, perfect the absolute levelness of each word spoken. No hallucination was so exact as this voice, this stabilizing and grounding voice.

But he couldn't respond. What if this wasn't real?

Would that be so bad?

Gideon had been more than a mentor to him. He had been the embodiment of what he never had but always wanted. And when he finally had it, too soon was it ripped from his hands. A note the only remainder that once Reid had been whole. But he couldn't bring himself to be angry, although he rehearsed a speech in his head of what he might say should he ever get the chance. A speech of empty promises and dashed expectations. But like a child who became furious with a parent, he soon forgot all animosity, all desire to yell, when the world became too chaotic and the only steadfast thing in life was the unconditional love of family.

He wanted it to be real, but if it wasn't, he didn't want the illusion to end.

So he remained silent, afraid his voice, high and falsetto in comparison, would shatter all that remained of the closest he came to a real father.

Sensing that his companion would not soon speak, Gideon smiled loosely, the wrinkles at the end of his thin lips deepening as they were pulled into a foreign position on his face. "I want to see the direction you choose," he said slowly, gently pushing the board in a circular manner so that the armies were switched, the white side now ready for Reid's disposal. "Offensive or defensive."

The former agent sat back now, the chair creaking under the movement. He waited, patiently, for Reid to make the first move.

Minutes were drawn out before he admitted in a voice low and quiet with humiliation, "I...I don't know if any of this is real or not."

Reaching forward and extending his arm out across the board, Gideon grabbed the top of the white pawn, four in from the left and moved it ahead two spaces for Reid. "Real or not...the longer you wait, the least likely you are to get to make the opening move."

xXx

"Have I ever told you the story of the King and his quest for knowledge?" Gideon asked, moving his rook deftly over the board and claiming one of Reid's pawns. The game was now at it's height of action, and Reid was distressed to see the effects of being so out of practice. However, the older man was being patient, allowing Reid to take ten minutes at a time to scan the board in search for the best move. But even ten minutes didn't seem to do the trick, as the collection of white pieces held to the side was startlingly large compared to the meager six black pieces- all but one knight pawns.

Reid shook his head. "Not that I recall," he answered modestly.

Gideon smirked. "If you don't recall, than I clearly didn't."

Clearing his throat, he started the story as they continued to work over the black and white tiled surface. "Long, long ago, there lived a king who decided he wanted his son to have all the knowledge there was in the world. So, he sent out several of his most trusted advisers and gave them the daunting task of collecting all the information they could within a text for him. A year passed, and they returned with hundreds of books, written and containing all the knowledge they had found from the world.

However, the king was put off by the amount of tomes to read and asked that they shorten and condense it all. So they returned, once more, instead with one large book. Still, the king thought it too long and had them condense it further. When they finally came back, they had only one sentence."

Reid furrowed his brows, his eyes raising in confusion to look at Gideon. "But that's impossible...you can't learn everything in one sentence- there's too much."

Gideon paused as he perused the chess board, his fingertips slowly gliding over the crown of each of his pieces as he thought of his move. Without looking up, he continued the story. "The king, finally satisfied with the length, accepted the sentence and then read it for himself. It said: 'This too shall pass.'"

Reid looked up, his head turned to the side as he ruminated on the anecdote. He was perched on the edge of his bed now, his long legs curled underneath him and his hands resting in his laps, the chess game forgotten now as he bit down on his lip. "But...that's not...knowledge," he said finally, seeming like it was a struggle to admit he disagreed with Gideon's charming little tale.

The man rose a brow in response. "It's not?"

He shook his head. "No, it's not. I mean...how can someone learn math or...or science...or history from...that? It's nothing but a fortune cookie saying," he said, his shoulders rising and falling as he idly moved a piece as Gideon motioned to the board, his patience waning.

"But it's very true, wouldn't you agree? Every war, every misfortune humanity has suffered...eventually it does end. Everything passes, at one point or another. And, this too shall pass," he said, raising his index finger and pointing it in Reid's direction.

Reid lowered his gaze, his eyes falling onto the chessboard. He was backed into a corner, so to speak. There was no way to win, not for him anyway. It wasn't surprising really. He hadn't practiced chess in a year, and, even when he did, he hardly ever won against Gideon. Sighing, he moved his knight, allowing it to be picked up deftly by Gideon in his next move. He was near giving his pieces away at this rate, and he winced internally at the awful technique. Maybe he should purchase a chess set to take with him to the hospital so he could at least do something productive.

Gideon, deciding to take pity on the former agent, claimed the king.

"Checkmate," Reid mumbled for him, taking to the task of cleaning all the pieces off the board. But he stilled in the chore as Gideon carried on, his voice low and each word filled with purpose.

"Believe it or not, you're life will return to normal. Nothing can stay broken for long, Spencer. This sadness will end-"

Something snapped within him, like his emotions were nothing more than a tightly wound up ball of twine that Gideon dove into haphazardly and cut out without thought, the slim strands of metal bursting free and unfurling with startling momentum, snapping through the air like a whip that broke the sound barrier. His chin rose high in the air, his eyes narrowed uncharacteristically. "It's not sadness, Gideon. Sadness mean that I overall feel melancholy and unhappy for a moment, a fleeting feeling."

The man, momentarily put off by the sharp mood change and hard glint in the caramel colored eyes, quickly regained his composure and said evenly, "Than what is?"

Reid thought for a moment, the hollow of his cheek alternately becoming cast in light and shadows as he clenched his jaw. "I can be happy, angry, sad, nervous, worried, scared...it doesn't matter, because it's superficial. I'm not always moping about, because I'm not overcome in sadness. It's..." he struggled, groping around for the right word. "Hopelessness. Like no matter what- whether I'm frowning or smiling- it's not enough. I'm not...sad. I...I don't feel the need to cry and I don't want to die-"

He stopped, blushing here as he realized the contradiction of his words. He was in a hospital, in as much health as could possibly be expected of him, and had been admitted on his actions. Of his brash and foolish decision to swallow pills. Clearly, some part of him did hold a desire to die, didn't it?

He rephrased himself then. "I don't want to kill myself. I just...don't understand why I need to put up a fight when in the end...I'll die anyway. And so will everyone else. There's no such thing as a footprint. In billions of years, the son will die and implode, taking the earth with it. And who's to say that we'd even still be here by then anyway? Chances are we'd die off, wouldn't be an unusual occurrence, we're no different than any other species.

"Maybe, in a thousand years, all traces of human life will be gone. Dead- everyone will be dead. And it won't matter if you were Adolf Hitler, Nelson Mandela or Robert Frost- what you did in the world won't mean a thing if no one else is there to even remember it.

"So why bother? There's nothing for me to gain by living...I haven't a family..." he blushed here, once more, thinking about his mom cooped up in the industrial walls of a long term psychiatric care unit, and his father, his whereabouts unknown and uncared for, as he was most certainly in a drunken, angry stupor, wherever that may be. And he was certain JJ had been repulsed by him early, and he was thankful he had missed out on that reaction, and surely she would move on to find someone else. Reid, at a steadily growing age, would not settle down. He had no way with women, hardly even cared for specific company, only company in general. No future wife would be gracing his mattress, no future children would be driving him mad and drawing within the margin of his beloved text, marring the crisp, white pages. No family to love.

Clearing his throat, he added, "At least, not a proper one."

"I don't have a proper family," Gideon stated, his lips pursing slightly as they often did when he tried to be matter of fact to make a point. "Does that mean I should die?"

He wasn't sure exactly what he expected Reid to say to his question- to be honest, he wouldn't have been surprised if the man had quickly snapped his mouth, mumbled an embarrassed apology, and turned away, afraid he had offended his former mentor. But Gideon had seemed to forget that that was the old Reid, the one he had left behind more than five years ago. And while he knew his condition would be bad, his depression most assuredly one of the worst cases he had seen, he had not expected it when, instead of clumsily apologizing, the man responded with a curt, "You will anyway."

He let the shock show on his features, the lines of worry on his face deepened even further. For perhaps the first time that he had been in this room- the first time in nearly an hour and a half, he saw Reid for who he was, not who he had been.

The sight of injuries and bruised flesh was not a new decorum to see littering the young man who seemed to nearly prance into booby traps, even back when Gideon was still working for the BAU, so he had easily dismissed them as nothing more than a physical imperfection, a side effect of being Reid. Even with his years of profiling and experience, he made what he would consider a rookie mistake.

He hadn't wanted his idea of Reid- the man who was a surrogate son to him- to be tarnished with this new version of the man. The traumatized, abused man who looked worlds apart from the man he had been. Gideon didn't want to see what had happened to his son, so he didn't let himself see it.

But now, still reeling from the mental slap of his cold words, he could all but drink in the changes, his eyes studiously examining every inch of ivory flesh and comparing it to memory.

He was thinner, his skin sallower. The faint ghost of frown lines were now forming amongst his tightly pinched lips, and the crinkle atop of his brow could only be seen in just the right light, at just the right angle. And the dull, freckled appearance of gray hair could be seen at the start of his temples, silver, now, under the imposing lighting. But his eyes...they were something else entirely, like he had borrowed them from someone else, someone older, someone who had seen more horrors than the mind could bear.

Thin, red lines were creeping out from the corners of his eyes, trailing to the center where stood the iris and the pupil. And the little rays that surrounded the black sphere seemed more weighed down then he previously remembered, as if someone had gone over them with a wider brush, in a muddier color. The rim of the pupil was darker, and thicker, leaving very little room for the kaleidoscope of colors that Gideon recalled his eyes being. But the blues and greens and browns had been replaced by darker hues, the overall tinge a deep honey color, with a bold gray blotting it out like a smudge.

Gideon was forced to look away, slightly disconcerted by the man before him who was nothing more than a poorly, half put together doppelganger of the man who would walk to an UnSub unarmed, confident enough in humanity to believe that not everyone was as evil as they seemed, that even a deranged psychopath could be coaxed into putting down a gun without having one leveled at him as well.

Reid's voice, timid now and reminding Gideon, in relief, of the man he once knew, said, "I don't want to feel this way. And I'm trying...I really am...but it's not sadness, it's something...something worse."

"You're depressed," Gideon suggested, trying to shake of the chill he had acquired and resume his almost clinical speculation.

But Reid adamantly shook his head. "But I'm not. I know there are reasons to get up in the morning, and I don't feel depressed. I just...everything's lost...meaning," he ended feebly.

"Like someone sucked all the color out of you life, and left bland black and whites?" Gideon offered, a slight smirk forming.

Reid nodded eagerly, nearly falling forward with the relief that someone knew how he felt without feeling the need to call in a psychiatrist. "How do you-"

Gideon's smile wavered slightly. "You're not the only one who's suffered. You're just the only one to suffer directly under an UnSub's hand for long enough that your mind had to protect itself."

At those words, the young patient blanched, the pallor of his skin turning even lighter now as the tips of his ears tinged pink. He was right, of course. Hotch, while having been attacked by George Foyet, had suffered the even greater lost of his wife. And Gideon, years before even the infamous Boston Reaper made his existence known again, had lost his girlfriend- as well as a young woman he had worked tirelessly to save- at the hands of Frank.

It wasn't necessarily that Reid had forgotten of these tragedies, it was simply that he had been so wrapped up in his head, in his constant onslaught of memories. And even though Reid was the only one to live through a week of unimaginable hell, the two strongest men he'd ever known had lived through their own as well.

"Hotch...he talked to me earlier, about Hayley's death," he said, unsure exactly of why it was important.

Gideon smiled. "He cares about you, Spencer. He doesn't want to lose you. And for a man like Aaron, telling you something so personal is his way of letting you know that." The younger man nodded numbly, recalling his feelings of awe and entitlement that he had been allowed to be privy to such information.

Hesitantly, he asked, "What about you?"

"Sarah's death was devastating to me. But it was more or less Rebecca's death that led me to the decision to leave," he said, his eyes downcast to the floor.

Reid looked shocked. "Why?"

"Frank murdering Sarah was personal, but, if she had been the only one to die, would've only made me more dedicated to work. I had nothing left to lose after that. She was my family, the only person I cared to come home to. Without her, what was the point of wanting to come home? It would only solidify my sense of justice, and even more so, it made me more determined to catch the bastard.. But when he got Rebecca..." he shook his head and rose a shaking hand to his brow, where he pressed his palm firmly against it. He took a deep breath and continued, "Rebecca was supposed to be free. She had already experienced her lifetime trauma, and she moved on. She was successful. She was supposed to have a happy ending. But she didn't.

"It's hard, Spencer, when someone who was so young, who lived through so much, had to suffer not once, but twice. And on top of it...to be killed with that suffering. I needed to leave so that I could meet people who had never experienced one tragedy, let alone two. I had to forget that sometimes, people are given a second chance, only to have it destroyed."

The room was filled in silence then, as Reid swallowed heavily. His throat was going thick with tears and it hurt to have to press down against it, his eyes watering. But it was with great shame that he had to admit that the tears were selfish. For he was not crying over the remembrance of Rebecca Jacobs, or the lost of Sarah. He was crying over something so completely unimportant when stacked up and measured against the two.

Nonetheless, it brought both sorrow and red hot anger fresh in his veins, creating an off kilter high of emotions. And, through gritted teeth and tears, he said, "But why didn't you say goodbye?"

Gideon was unfazed. "I did say goodbye-"

"A NOTE!" Spencer yelled, snapping his spine up straight. "You left a note! A note is what you leave when you had to step out for milk and will be back in five minutes! Not when you're leaving with the intent of never coming back!"

He looked ready to continue yelling, to spit out bitter comment after angry accusation. But instead, he stared at Gideon, longingly, pleadingly, as though begging for him to relieve him of the burden of being upset and hurt for his actions. Or, more appropriately, inaction. But he couldn't continue to be angry, to actively seek revenge anymore. It was exhausting to remain on your haunches, ready to launch or run. It was exhausting to be on guard, to stare at someone a hair longer than necessary to search for any tell-tale signs of deceit. It was exhausting to always second guess whether or not what was being said was the truth or just another fabrication of one, someone lying to him for personal gain. After all the anger he harbored over the man, after every injustice he felt, he simply was too exhausted to be angry or distrustful of everyone. He needed someone to turn to, to fold their arms around him.

And throughout his whole life, up until his sudden leave, Gideon had always been that person.

His shoulders slumped, a defeat, a give to the inner want to just curl up and stop attacking everyone in sight. "A note..." he whispered, the slight, ungraceful choke of tears slithering around his words.

He felt the strong arms of his former mentor wrap around him, felt himself being pulled into his chest. And for once, for the first time, he didn't fall apart at the seams. He didn't dissolve into a puddle of tears and fragmented nightmares. Instead, he focused on other things, not the suffocating feeling of arms wrapped around him. He thought of how scratchy Gideon's sweater was on his dry skin. How the man smelled like coffee and old text books, like he spent his days and nights in the corner of a library, fueled only by caffeine and the constant desire to learn, to sink into the inner sanctum of the written world.

And instead of the rough feeling of hands bringing him back to memories of that week, it brought back memories of years before, when he was knew to the job and naïve to how the protector might be in need of protecting. He was drawn into those earlier cases, remembered the feeling of pride that came when he had found the key to the case in Arizona, Clara Hayes's obsession with the number three. He remembered discussing his nightmares, something he at the time had not been used to.

And even though Gideon repeated over and over again I'm sorry, I'm so sorry he couldn't hear it, he was too busy perusing through older memories, ones that had been left forgotten, pushed aside by a mind too destroyed to care about the past, present or future. For the first time in a year, he melted into the embrace, cried without embarrassment, and smiled at the thought of memories from long ago.

xXx

"I'm telling you, Hotch, it was unsettling," Morgan said, shaking his head slowly and chewing on the inside of his cheek as he recounted his conversation with Varney and the chilling yet oh so human like requests the man made of him. As if he had the right to be human, as if he had the right to care. His fingers clenched tighter around the key ring he held in his right fist, the key for the large SUV poking out from between his index and middle finger. He could feel the metal indenting on his palm as he did so, but he couldn't stop himself. He was just so frustrated! All he wanted to do was find the nearest gym and punch a punching bag until sand ripped from the seams and the frayed edges sprang apart.

What would've happened if he did that to Varney, punching him until his knuckles were torn and bruised? Would the man respond in the same way as a heavy weight bag, falling apart until sand particles fell from his wounds? Or would another substance escape the ripped edges of his skin, the lifeless and useless orifices? Would it be a poisonous gas? A venom? Mud?

All he knew for certain was that whatever made up the man- the monster- was something other than flesh and blood, something not so human.

"I'm sure it was," Hotch responded, his voice sounding distant and detached. He was too busy thinking over the enigma that was Heath Varney. The loving husband, the brutal rapist. The caring father, the vindictive murderer. It was unsettling, that was uncertain, that a man could genuinely live amongst others in this world, live a normal life, and not just be faking it for appearances. But at the same time, it was also a breath of fresh air. A nod that perhaps even God's most half-fashioned, most brutal creations were something more. That underneath the scales, the talons and thick skin, they were nothing more than the rest of us: a network of neurons that controlled the same base reactions. They were a bundled up chord of fear, of anger, of sorrow, of hope, of love, and of happiness. Maybe they were trapped. A man trapped in the facade of a monster, a demon having stolen his body. And every so often, the man would overpower the beast and poke through, a frightened prisoner to his own mind.

It was so hard to maintain a faith in a humanity in this job, crippling even. And as ironic as it were, wasn't that ultimately what there job was, to find a sliver of humanity in all of us? No one really wanted to know why a crime was committed. Motives were never a concern when you had several bodies to bury, several families who would mourn, several communities forever changed. No, what really mattered in the end was 'Is everyone capable of this, or is this just a fluke, some mistake made while the person was conceived? A chromosome out of place, a brain system ill formed, a chemical not behaving properly? Or is this merely the creation of man, not God, that have begot this beast? Was this murderer a product of nature, destined to kill since birth, or the product of our society, made that way from perhaps some undercooked meat, traumatic experiences, or toxins found in everyday products?'

And in the end, Hotch was still never quite sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing to find the humanity in someone so detached from it.

"It's snowing," Morgan stated, shaking the older man from his reverie as he stepped outside the back door of the courthouse. And sure enough it was. A thin layer dusted the parking lot, coating the metallic surfaces of vans and cars and shielding the glass dividers of each vehicle from the world. The snow fell, lightly and slowly, as though taking the time to dance its way down, each snowflake performing its own ballet.

"A little early, isn't it?"

At this Morgan smiled. "You know what I think? I think we should stop by and get some hot chocolate and a book for Reid," he suggested, recalling how the man once said he enjoyed snow if only for a backdrop of some pleasant reading.

"I could go for some hot chocolate," Hotch agreed, a small smirk forming. Extra marshmallows. With whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. And he would drink through the sweetness of it, the foamy texture of melted marshmallows sticking to the back of his teeth, despite the fact that he hated marshmallows. Jack loved them, and would place a mountain of them so that they merely absorbed the hot chocolate instead of melting into it if left to his own devices.

But as the two walked along the lot, Varney forgotten as the kicked snow up in their path. A loud popping sound shook the air around them, expanding into the open space and disappearing into the atmosphere. They stopped in their tracks, swiveling around quickly to glance behind them. All they saw was the door, slowly falling into place in the frame as snow drifted around it, curtaining it off.

"Did you hear that?" Hotch asked, though he was quickly reaching for his gun, Morgan having done the same.

A pop, like bubble wrap bursting loudly enough to ricochet around the room. A pop, like a cork pushing through the neck of a wine bottle. A pop, like a gunshot in the distance.

Jaws tightened, fingers wrapped around the base of guns, feet spread into a defensive stance, one that would take the backfire of a shot. But silence followed, no more pops, no shouts, just eerie quiet, settling around them like a too thick down comforter.

And then, perhaps seconds, minutes, or days later, the door swung open, slamming against the brick exterior of the courthouse and creating a loud bang which shook some snow off the roof, the windowsill. In the doorway stood the tall looming form of Heath Varney, changed from a suit and tie to the dark green of state prison wear. The suit was, after all, only a show for the jury, a plea to remind them that this man was still a man, not a prison fixture. A plea that he could be like the rest of us. But it was only a show, and he was quickly forced to change after each trial so that he became that stigma, a beacon to the outside world that he did not belong. A chain was fasted around his waist, connecting to handcuffs that had only so much give to bear, enough slack to go about your daily necessities. And yet, Varney had managed to accommodate himself quite nicely, managing to steadily hold the stolen handgun and fix it upon the two FBI agents.

Morgan growled, a primal sound deep within his throat.

"Don't do this, Varney!" Hotch yelled, his voice commanding, aggressive.

But the man or monster before them didn't listen, steadily stepping forward, the barrel of the gun trained expertly as he moved. "I have to!" he called, a desperate twang filling his gruff voice that nearly startled the two men into dropping their weapons.

There was something feral about him, his blue eyes livid and untamed, roaming wildly around as though he were too paranoid to let them settle on a fixed surface. Hotch tightened his hold on his gun, his profiling mind already at work.

"Varney, it will only get worse for you! For your children!" he called, watching as the man trembled at the mentioning of his children, his young son and daughter.

But he regained himself once more, a new light in his eyes, a new determined edge to his voice as he said, "They're better off without me! They hate me now...they're embarrassed by me. What would you do, Agent Hotchner, in my position? What would you do if Jack hated you?"

It took all he had to not apply what little pressure was needed to squeeze the trigger, what little amount of effort it took to take a man's life. "Don't you dare," he warned, his voice lowering to a threatening point, "Ever mention my son again. You have no right!"

Varney stood, unwavering, his hands shaking as he looked behind him. They could hear it, the loud clattering of footsteps, the shouts of 'He went down here!' 'Get him!' They were coming for him, they were nearly there.

Varney looked at them, pleadingly, his eyes bouncing around frantically as he took several large bounds forward, the gun began to quiver in his hands. Hotch and Morgan stepped back, tightening the muscle in their arms as they held their position.

"Varney!" Morgan called, his voice growing louder. "VARNEY!"

A gunshot rang out, loud and defeaning. Varney froze, his body slouching as he dropped the handgun, chains ringing melodically with his movements. Red bloomed onto his jumpsuit, like a rosebud opening with the first few signs of spring, spreading each individual petal forward. He gasped then, his hands slowly finding the wound as he dropped to his knees, choking for air. Behind him stood several prison guards holding pistols, smoke emitting from the barrel of one.

"You alright, Agents?" one called, but they didn't hear them, as both Hotch and Morgan rushed forward, coming to kneel beside the fallen man, the murderer.

"Varney?" Hotch called, watching as the man blinked blearily up at him, his eyesight nebulus and wavering. He opened his mouth, as though to respond, but coughed instead, thick, dark blood spilling forward as his body racked with convulsive coughing. His eyes rolled backwards before settling on Hotch, shaking slightly.

Swallowing the thick blood, he managed to say, "What would you do...Aaron Hotchner...if Jack needed you...but hated you?" And with that, his body went limp, hands sliding from down his stomach as the fingers unfurled, his head tilting back against the snow. Blood blossomed around his body, seeping and staining the snowflakes beneath a dark, saturated red. Pink fingers reaching outwards and moving quickly as the blood continued to flow, never ending, spilling out all over the barely visible pavement. So much so, that Hotch and Morgan finally had to stand to avoid staining their pants.

Then it happened. His eyes, glassy and gazing off in the distance, dulled, almost instantaneously, his jaw slacked as the light from his eyes dissipated, the whites looking awfully gray as his chest stilled, holding in a breath he never got to release.

In a daze, Hotch and Morgan stumbled back, allowing the prison guards to crowd Varney, to declare a time of death, to call an ambulance, to gently close his eyes so that they never had to face the world anymore.

Hotch's whole body was alive, humming with activity as his mind played over the dying words over and over again, on an endless cycle. 'What would you do...Aaron Hotchner...if Jack needed you, but hated you?' It was an amazing thing, being a father. A wonderful responsibility, a task he was willing to face every day. He knew he would do anything for Jack, anything to see him smile, to see him laugh, to see him strive. Would he even die, letting himself leave this world if he knew it was Jack needed? He didn't even need to think on it. He knew, beyond a fraction of a doubt, that if Jack truly would be better off without him, he would die, in an instant. And he would go with a smile on his face, knowing that his son would be better off.

"Do you think..." Morgan started, his voice trailing off slowly as his eyes never left the lifeless man, as though waiting for him to spring into action.

"If he committed suicide, his children wouldn't have the burden of knowing a murderer was their father, but then..."

"Insurance," Morgan responded with a sigh. "His family couldn't collect insurance if it was suicide. Police gunfire...they can get insurance from that."

"What do you know," Hotch said, his voice low and stoic. "He did prove to be useful to his family after all."

They stood there, for heaven knows how long, watching as the ambulance came and pulled the body onto a stretcher, covering him with a sheet as though they were concerned about the effects the cold weather would have on a dead body. They watched as the guards gave their statements, as they crossed off the lot, as photographs were taken. They watched until they couldn't, until the stark contrast of red on white began to burn their vision. Watched until they had to look way and clamber into the SUV.

No one cared to point out that in the end, Varney bled not sand, not gas, not poison, not mud, but regular and thick blood. That in the end, his makeup was no different than the rest of us.