Author's Note: This is the last chapter.It ends rather ambiguously, but I kind of want it that way so I will not be writing an epilogue or clarification of any kind. If you are very, very confused by the end you can ask me a question in a review or PM and I'll answer it. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing, and please tell me what you think of the end!

The tires screeched as he swerved around the corner, the smell of burnt rubber filling his nose as he smashed his foot on the gas pedal and zipped down the highway.

He's not going to get away. Hotch was sure of this. Reid didn't want to get away; that was why he had allowed Hotch to hear the door ring. He would still be there. It made sense. That was the profile.

It's a trap. Yes, that would be the next logical conclusion. Somehow, Hotch didn't care.

Hotch could feel his hands trembling with anger and adrenaline as he pulled into the parking lot. He was out of the car before he had fully stopped, sprinting at the building.

The door dinged again as he entered. The receptionist gave him a frightened look.

"Is there something wr-wrong—"

"FBI," Hotch said, flashing his badge at her. "Get everyone out of the building."

He didn't turn to see his frightened look as he sprinted down the hall. He slowed to a stop as he approached the door. He stared for a moment.

The fire alarm went off.

He nodded once to himself; the small part of his brain that actually cared about other people was pleased with this.

He thought briefly about Jack. What would his son say to him right now? If he knew he was embarking on a suicide mission? If he knew that Reid wouldn't let him out alive? What would think of him, if he went in?

What would Jack think if he didn't go in? What if Reid got away again? What if other people died, because he didn't go in…?

Slowly, Hotch reached for the door. He pulled it open.

Reid was sitting on the couch, reading.

Hotch almost wanted to laugh.

Except that it wasn't really funny.

Reid looked up. He was smiling, as if Hotch was a welcome visitor he had been expecting for ages.

"It was about time you showed up," Reid said.

Hotch pointed his gun at him.

"That's not very friendly," Reid admonished him. He moved the book onto the couch, slowly; Hotch glanced at the cover.

One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest.

That was oddly fitting.

But that was not the thing that held Hotch's attention. It was the thing in his hand.

Reid was holding a remote control. He ran his thumb over it slowly, as if caressing it.

"So that's it?" Hotch snapped suddenly, exasperatedly. "You're going to blow both of us up? Was that your plan all along?"

Reid grinned and shrugged. He got to his feet.

"I knew you'd come," he said, clutching the remote tight to his chest, his finger on the button. "That's why I chose you. Rossi, Prentiss—they would have sent a bomb squad in. With Morgan, it could have gone either way. But you; you wanted to catch me. I knew you'd come in yourself. You're a very self sacrificing person. You see, Hotch—" Reid flashed him a grin. "I'm a profiler."

Hotch wondered how the hell Reid had gotten a hold of so many explosives.

Reid rolled his eyes. "I made them, Hotch," he said, as if he were disappointed by his superior's incompetence. "I have a doctorate in chemistry."

Hotch blinked. Reid was a better profiler than he'd thought.

"I'll shoot you right now," Hotch said, "Before you can push that button."

"Really?" Reid asked, raising his eyebrows. "You think you can? How about I just push it now, then, to save you the trouble?"

Hotch took an involuntary step backwards. Reid looked delighted by this.

"You see, Hotch?" he said giddily, "Isn't this just the perfect way to finish it?"

Hotch shook his head slowly, staring at the ground. "You don't have to finish it," he muttered.

"I do!" Reid shouted, for the first time losing his cool; he took a step forwards, his eyes dark and angry.

"Why?" Hotch asked, feeling the question that had haunted him day and night finally escaping.

"Because!" Reid shouted, suddenly erupting in anger, "Because of them!" His free arm flew out backwards, pointing towards the window. "For Tucker! And my mother! For them, Hotch!" Reid was staring at him wildly, as if begging him to understand.

Hotch shook his head. "You've murdered…"

"I've saved them!" He shouted at Hotch; his voice echoed off the walls of the apartment.

"JJ," Hotch interrupted, "And Will, and Morgan and Garcia and Prentiss and those nurses, and that girl, Katie—Reid, they were innocent."

Reid fixed him with a blank stare. "No one's innocent," he whispered. "Not enough to be happy, anyways. You get older and everything changes and it gets all fucked up, Hotch—all…fucked…up."

Hotch didn't know what to say.

Reid started pacing the room. "That's what I realized, Hotch," he said, speaking quickly. "After I got back. All the people we've saved—we didn't really save them, did we? Like me and Tucker. Then I realized—it was everyone else, too—because if they already weren't—they would have been. See?"

Hotch shook his head slowly. "What?" he asked.

Reid gritted his teeth, looking increasingly angry.

"Why didn't you kill Henry?" Hotch asked suddenly.

Reid shook his head slowly. "I couldn't finish," he whispered, as if he were terribly disappointed with himself. "It was…it was because of the laughing."

Hotch blinked, then shook his head. "Listen," he said, "This isn't you. I can save both of us.. If you walk out of here with me, right now…" He took another step forwards.

That's when Hotch caught sight of his arm.

"Reid," he said, shocked; this had been one thing he hadn't been expecting. "Are you high right now?"

Reid started, reaching for his arm to pull the sleeve back over the track marks.

Hotch raised his gun, knowing he had only seconds.

Head shot, he thought to himself. You have it. Right there. Kill him.

Suddenly, involuntarily, his finger froze on the trigger. And then Reid wasn't himself anymore; he changed somehow, morphing into something else before Hotch's eyes. He wasn't the thirty year old man that had killed forty people in a week—he was the skinny, twenty year old kid that Hotch had beaten up in front of Phillip Dowd—he was the child who had watched his schizophrenic mother deteriorate before his very eyes—the young man that had been drugged by Tobias Hankel and tortured by Christopher Buchannan, who had been held hostage and shot at and stabbed and who maybe, maybe just had too much to take—

Hotch fired anyways.

The shot went wide.

Then Reid's head turned, and he was back. He was no longer each of these things; he was the culmination of them. Hotch finally saw—it finally made sense. He opened his mouth to say so; but Reid spoke first.

"I'm sorry, Hotch," he said, with a smile that was half mocking, half sad. "We can't be saved."

A second later, everything was on fire.

Red—that was the only thing that Hotch could see. Everything was red, voices were shouting; what was that? Strange shapes were moving around him, blurring, changing…were there people there?

"He's back!" He heard a voice shout.

Back? Hotch hadn't been aware that he'd left. Where was Reid? He tried to open his eyes.

"Wh—wh—" Hotch tried to speak, but couldn't; he felt blood running from his mouth.

"Sir, we are the paramedics, we are here to help…"

Hotch took a deep breath, coughing up more blood. He opened his eyes; everything had changed. He wasn't in the same place as before; an unfamiliar face swam above him. He couldn't tell if it was real or a dream.

"I h-have to m-make sure—" Hotch sputtered.

"Sir, don't try to talk right now, we're going to help—"

"I have to make sure he's dead!" Hotch gasped—however, at that moment, he felt the last of the air leave his lungs.

The face began to swim again, then became blurry. Shapes were twirling. He could hear laughter—where was Reid? Was he still laughing? He could barely hear the paramedic shouting, "He's flat-lining again…!"

Suddenly, everything turned bright white. He could still hear the laughter.

It became very dark. The voices disappeared, the laughter echoing and fading into oblivion.

Then it was silent.

And then there was nothing.

THE END