Hotch bent over his desk, intent on appearing so entrenched, so lost in concentration that no one would dare interrupt.

He was lost, but not in any productive zone. In truth, the same two words were running through his mind. They'd begun at a low, crunching walk on the flight home. Then, they'd picked up speed. Now they were rushing at a pace that made a whining sound on his inner ear.

Hotch bent lower over the papers he pretended to read.

Soon those two dreadful words would escalate to a sonic scream. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to keep from joining them, shrieking out his anger and hate and outrage right along with them.

Feeding their momentum with the last vestiges of his self-control.

He wanted to take off his tie. He wanted to toe his shoes off beneath his desk. He wanted to undo his belt, pull it off with a sliding, ripping sound, and drop it to the floor. Hell, I want to strip naked and run through the rain until someone stops me. Forcibly. Forcibly enough to hurt.

None of which he could do without attracting undue attention as actions unbecoming a BAU Unit Chief. Or a person at home in their own mind. You know…a sane person…

He bent lower over his pretend-work.

Every few minutes he'd sneak a look toward his office window, through the slatted blinds, and into the bullpen beyond; a dark, flickering of his eyes that no one would notice. Just hold on. It was a long case. We got back late. Everyone knows the reports aren't due until tomorrow. They'll all go home pretty soon.

Hotch bent low and waited for everyone to leave, looking intense so no one would stop in to say goodnight, or ask him how long he planned on staying, or if everything was okay. Because everything's not okay!

He had no idea what he'd do once he was well and truly alone. The two words would no doubt escape their mental cage and splatter outward.

He had no idea what that would look like.

But he was sure it wasn't anything he'd want his team to witness.

Just…hang…on…

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan pushed back in his chair, stretching his arms up and out as far as he could, accompanying the joint-popping movement with a satisfied groan, half pain, half pleasure. He dropped his pen on top of the sheaf of papers he'd been proofing and reached around to switch off his computer.

"Yo. Prentiss. You feel like hittin' someplace? Slammin' back a few?" He knew she was his best bet for a partner when it came to skirting the edges of propriety and dabbling in the shadier extracurricular activities that appealed to him at the moment. Anything to blunt the edges of this last case.

"Yeah. Sure." She tossed her own pen down and did a fair approximation of Morgan's languorous, elaborate stretch. "This stuff'll still be here tomorrow. Might be easier to take with a hangover blurring it a little."

Morgan watched J.J. turn off the lights in her office and descend the ladder-like steps into the bullpen. He knew what her answer to the invitation would be. She'd rather go home and shed the case and the day in the company of her little family. For a moment he envied her. Only for a moment. He wasn't to the point of settling down just yet. As the liaison approached, Morgan turned to the other possible drinking partner still pushing paper.

"Reid? You in?" No answer. Derek crumpled a vagrant Post-It and tossed it at the young doctor where it stuck in a tangle of brown curls. "Yo! Reid!"

"Huh? What?" Spencer's large, honey-amber eyes gazed about as though he found himself in unfamiliar surroundings. He blinked, still looking a little blank.

"Focus, genius. You wanna go with Prentiss and me? Suck down a few beers? Or any other poison of your choice?"

"Oh…uh…thanks, guys …ummm…"

"Spence…" J.J.'s soft voice overrode what she knew would be a clumsy grasping at excuses. Reid had trouble with social interaction. But she could read him loud and clear. He wants company, but not loud, bar-type company. And he doesn't want to drench those magnificent brain cells in alcohol. It won't affect his memory the way it will the rest of us. He'll still have every detail, every nuance at his beck and call. But he wants them to realize he does appreciate being asked. So few people have ever accepted him into their ranks.

All three agents looked up at J.J., waiting for her to continue. "Spence, you want me to drive you home? Maybe stop off at my place? Talk for a little?"

It was what he needed. They all knew it.

"Okay. Yeah. Thanks, J.J. That sounds good."

"So it's me and you, Prentiss. Party of two." Morgan's regard strayed to the upper deck where two offices were still occupied. "You think Rossi would wanna come? Or Hotch?"

Emily's snort gave some added depth to her opinion. "You can ask, but Rossi can afford a lot better than any bars around here would serve. And Hotch…?" All eyes tracked to the corner office. All voices fell silent for a few beats as each agent considered the figure that, to all appearances, seemed absorbed in work.

"He was so quiet on the way back."

"It hit him hard. Guess I can understand that."

"'Cause you're a parent, too, J.J."

"Yeah, but I wasn't there. What I saw were the photos. Those were bad enough. That's not the same as…you know…"

"Experiencing it. Olfactory impressions are some of the strongest and most lasting. They imprint, and, well…last."

"Thanks for the insight, kid. I'm gonna ask Rossi if he wants to get hammered anyway. Might like to slum it for a change. And maybe he can get some feelers out about Bossman."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Normally, Hotch would have sought out his son.

Even if the boy was asleep, he'd have leaned close, inhaled his scent, feeling it transport him to a place of comfort and love. He would have rested his chin on the edge of the child's bed and let his eyes drink in the sight of him, letting it seep deep, hoping it would dilute the things he'd seen in the name of duty.

Not this time.

Children were perceptive. Hotch didn't want Jack to sense the storms raging in his father's soul. He couldn't chance those innocent eyes opening and seeing the tragedy in Daddy's.

And he couldn't fool himself into thinking the boy wouldn't detect a glimmer of the savagery that a brutal world deposited in his father, leaving traces like a lingering stench that took longer and longer to dissipate each time Daddy came home.

His eyes flickered toward the bullpen again, checking. Most of the team were gathered around Morgan's desk.

Good. They're getting ready to leave.

Hotch bit his lip. The two words tormenting him were reaching a crescendo.

Leave. Please. Hurry up and leave. Hurry…hurry…hurry…