The knife penetrates his skin, slow and deep. Foyett is leaning over him, whispering into his ear, and Hotch refuses to allow himself to react. Foyett wants shock, he wants fear, wants revulsion, wants signs of pain; and while Hotch might feel all of those things he won't show any of them.

"Do you want to see my scars?"

Foyett strips all of the layers off of his upper body, proudly displaying his chest for the world to see. Spinning around as if he's some sort of twisted model; flaunting his scars.

"Do you like them? Yours will look just the same."

He wants to laugh, but finds he doesn't have the strength. Breathing alone is enough of a chore, why bog it down with something as ironic in these circumstances as laughter?

He manages to mumble something about his team, and gets treated to Foyett's arrogance, touting on about how the BAU hadn't caught him until he wanted them to, which scarily enough, has merit. They had initially dismissed him completely as a suspect – both times they'd been investigating the case.

"Now, try to relax. Your body will go numb. And it goes in so much easier if you let it."

The knife penetrates his skin again, going deep in an agonizingly slow motion and Hotch finds his breath taken away from him.

"The hard part is not passing out from the pain."

Hotch is finding this out in a way he wouldn't wish on most of the bastards he's put behind bars over the years.

Foyett leans down, his lips mere spaces away from Hotch's face. "Now I understand that profilers think that stabbing is a substitution for the act of sex. That if someone is impotent, they'll use a knife instead. Is that what you think, Agent Hotchner?" His lips almost brush against Hotch's cheek, and Hotch finds himself wishing he would pass out. If this is going where he fears, he might prefer being unconscious. Of course, then, the whole question – the fact that he doesn't know, not for sure, every act that has been done to him - would slowly drive him insane. He is sure Foyett knows at least that much about him.

"Maybe this will change the way that you profile."

This time Hotch doesn't feel the sharp slice as the knife pierces his skin; just the pressure behind the push, followed by the warmth of his own blood as it flows out of the wound. He's drifting, almost unaware of where he is or what's going on. On some level he knows that his body is going into shock but he's also a bit too far gone to care.

He's vaguely aware of his clothes being shifted; his pants being undone and moved out of the way. He's aware of the deliberate, almost gentle way that his body is being moved. Foyett is taking great care to assure that while he does as much damage as possible, he doesn't do too much, doesn't go that extra step too far.

Hotch feels the moisture from his own blood as his body shifts against his carpet, The pain more of a dull ache throughout his entire body as he floats on the brink of consciousness. He feels a pressure, a hand, moving against his groin and he shuts his eyes against the image of Foyett's face hovering over him. The man wants to break him, of that he's certain. The only other thing in the universe that Hotch can be certain of in that instant is that he won't let him.

His legs are shifted and the dull ache becomes more concentrated in one area rather than another. A groan escapes his throat and then there's another kind of pressure entirely.

Foyett's breath against his face makes him gag; only it sounds more like a sob, and he swears the bastard grins at him.

"So. What do you think now, Agent Hotchner?" Foyett's voice is punctuated by thrusts as he moves his hips between each word. "Still think that the knife is a substitution?"

The one solace that Hotch can find in the whole ordeal is that he doesn't have the energy to fight back in any way. If anything, it might save him some physical pain later. The only other hope that he has is that some other sick son-of-a-bitch would pull something this night and JJ would want the team back at the BAU. He was too much of a slave to the job to not show up. They'd know immediately that something was wrong.

The dull ache continued to grow, the fuzz of consciousness surrounding him becoming more distant with each passing second. His blood is soaking the carpet beneath him, mixing with his sweat and things he'd rather not fathom.

Foyett's weight above him becomes almost too much. His ragged breath is catching in the back of his throat – as if his body knows that it has taken too much, that it can't handle anymore. Foyett leans down, his body tensing as Hotch feels a faint warmth spread out and mingle with everything else.

"Yes, Agent Hotchner, I think that's quite enough for one evening."

Foyett withdraws and Hotch tries to hold it together, he tries to grasp on to the small thread of consciousness that is still within his reach. Then he's being wrapped in something and moved, and he can't hold on any longer. Slowly the ache overcomes him and unconsciousness takes hold.

Waking up in the hospital is a relief in a way, though even the morphine can't dull the ache that he is feeling. Even the briefest thought that Foyett, having done what he had, could possibly get his hands on his son, makes Hotch's stomach lurch and he feels like he is going to be sick around the pain.

"They're safe."

He's never heard a more wonderful sentence in his life. And he sighs, swallowing down the bile that rises in his throat. Prentiss reaching out almost takes him by surprise when she asks, "Do you want to talk about what happened?"

Maybe as a woman she will understand better than most what he's been put through. Maybe he should talk about it with someone more than the doctor who has repaired the damage. Maybe he really can trust his team with that much. And maybe they would never look at him the same way again. Maybe he can't voice the words to explain what and why and how it all happened. Maybe he can't take the risk to find out. So, instead he swallows down the revulsion.

"I dunno. After he stabbed me the first time it all goes blank."