A/N : This is post "Lauren", "With Friends Like These", and "Hanley Waters", so slight spoilers.

Disclaimer: I do not own CM or any of its characters. I'm only borrowing them, one in particular, and although I'd love to keep him I shall return him soon. I do not have a beta so all errors are my own.

~~~~~~The Solitude Of Betrayal~~~~~~~

They were a family.

He always thought so and over the years he was certain that they thought so too. It was an inevitable result of the amount of time they spent together for the sake of the job. It was comparable to the "brotherhood" that soldiers experienced while putting their lives in the hands of the men and women surrounding them everyday. The fellow soldiers in the trenches experiencing the same horrors and fighting the same fight. It wasn't something that could be adequately described. It wasn't something that could be questioned. It was a fact.

Though he often wondered if in their case he put more into the notion of them being a family than was warranted...than was really needed. He somehow managed to take it upon himself to play the role of protective older sibling with Reid, with Garcia, even with Ashley, reluctantly so. Sparingly, he took on that part with Emily as well. He shared that role with her too. He didn't think twice about stepping into the position, but he often wondered if they wanted it...wondered if they felt they needed it...this silent presence,his silent presence in the shadows ,waiting to catch them when they fell. He always felt it made a difference, that he made a difference. And yet somehow, he always felt as though he were on the outskirts of their family. He didn't doubt that he was essential, that he was respected and maybe even loved, or that he was important on some level or another. He didn't question that at all, and yet he still was on the frayed edges of their tight unit. He was the proverbial black sheep, and it had absolutely nothing to do with his skin shade.

It was in part because he walked to the beat of a slightly different drum. It was in part because they never understood him, and sometimes they didn't bother to try to. He was used to it, and it was something he managed to cope with. He was the vocal one. He was the one that outwardly expressed doubt...not because he lacked faith in his team, but because sometimes it encouraged them to think outside the box. He was the one that gave the very real and at times grave warnings as to what they could possibly get themselves into, not because he wanted to be right. Sometimes he wished he weren't right, and sometimes he was in fact wrong, but he said what had to be said. He was the one that seemed to question everything and they...they seemed to think that he liked that.

He didn't.

It was something that further ostracized him, left him feeling the most alone at times, but he felt compelled to do it anyways. He felt compelled to be outspoken because no one else would speak up otherwise. It was a burden at times, but it was one that he would willingly bear if it meant that it made them a stronger team...professionally and personally. He thought it did, and deep down he knew that they thought so too. There were those times though...those times in which if he didn't know any better he'd swear they were all certifiably insane or...in a different realm of humanity. This was one of those times.

He was appalled, hurt, and a number of other emotions that he couldn't begin to describe. She was alive. Ten months of thinking she was dead and she was alive, heart still beating, blood still flowing through her veins, breath still expelling from her body. She was alive and standing right beside his leader, explaining how it "had to be done." She looked different now. She was frailer than he remembered and a little tanner too. Her hair was different, falling to the length of her jaw, a reddish brown rather than the chestnut he was accustom to. He didn't like it. It wasn't her...but she wasn't her anymore. Apparently she went by Erica now.

He heard the snort escape his lips. It wasn't the best reaction but it was the only one he could muster right then. They heard it too, Em-Erica and Hotch, and the rest of his team...his family. He felt the dull burn of anger and a myriad of other emotions creep up his back and around his neck, and the red inflame his cheeks. He felt it, in rolling waves, coursing through his body making the sinews of his arms and legs thrum and vibrate. He felt the tears, the hot tears, prickle at the back of his eyelids where they would remain because he was all cried out. He felt the constriction in his throat and the way air fought to come in and go out. He felt the signs of a tongue rendered obsolete as his quivering lips moved but nothing came out. His voice captured and held by the cocktail of feelings circulating through his body.

They continued to explain and inform them as to what went on the past ten months, assuring them of how Doyle was now dead. The Doyle he dreamed of killing himself, a single bullet between the eyes or perhaps through his torso, right where his heart should have been. They assure them that Doyle was dead and she was safe now...they were safe now. Their eyes scanned over their colleagues, but he felt both pairs of eyes settle on him the most. He wasn't surprised. He had in fact gained the reputation as being the most temperamental. Emotional outbursts weren't out of the ordinary for him and acceptance...acceptance wasn't something he came to easily.

He couldn't bring himself to meet their eyes, he was too distracted taking in the responses of the others. He studied Garcia first. Her lips were pursed and her mouth slowly dropped when she walked in. She had those tears, those tears that he wiped from her beautiful face more times than he could physically count. She nodded along and took in the story and before Hotch or Em-Erica could wrap up, Garcia was in her arms and squeezing her tight and he knew that she wouldn't let her go again. He studied Reid, who sputtered nonsensical questions before rushing to Emily and collapsing into her arms, burying himself into her like a wounded child clinging to his mother. He watched as Rossi let out a strangled cry before reaching out and grabbing her hand. He took in Seaver, she was still processing. He knew she wouldn't outwardly show much of a reaction because just as when she found out that Emily had "died", she didn't think she deserved to grieve then, just as she probably didn't think she deserved to rejoice now. She already seen so much in her short life and she was accepting...slowly accepting.

He leaned back in his chair. It was all he really could do, as he watched the flood of confusion and happiness unfold in his friends...in his family. They were okay with it. They were perfectly okay with what had transpired and he wished...he truly wished, that he could be surprised of that fact. He wasn't. The overwhelming sense of relief and unabridged happiness washed away a year's worth of pain and inexplicable grief...not instantly. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that it was instantaneous,but almost...it was almost sickeningly close. He wanted to ask them why they were okay with this, how they could be okay with this? He wanted to ask why he was the only one feeling so angry. He didn't. Overcome with a multitude of emotions, he could not and would not take away their happiness, not when he spent nearly a year longing to see that happiness again.

He couldn't really hear the droning of their voices, none of what was being said was registering with him. The only words ever penetrating his shock being "sorry". Muttered apologies in quiet tones coming from the woman he worked so closely with for years. Sorry. But sorry just didn't cut it.

"Sorry" didn't make up for the past ten months he spent hugging Penelope. It didn't erase the thousands of kisses he pressed to her temple as he clicked his tongue soothingly and told her everything would be okay, despite knowing that it damn well wouldn't be. It didn't cancel out the millions of tears that spilled across her porcelain cheeks, the choked sobs that wracked through her trembling body as she burrowed herself into his arms in fear of letting go. An apology just didn't cover the days where he watched the luminous light that she always radiated slowly fade away.

Sorry.

Somehow, hearing "sorry" didn't make up for watching his friend...his brother, anguished yet again by another abandonment. It didn't measure up to the time he spent in a waiting room after countless of tests were run again to guarantee that Reid was truly okay. It didn't quite null the constant reassurances he had to give Reid, about his mind, about his job. It didn't make up for the broken boy that Reid had become. It didn't elimate the past four months of sharing his apartment, just so he could be there to calm the blood-curdling screams of his grief-stricken friend as another nightmare plagued him.

An apology just couldn't make him forget the endless nights he spent nursing a bottle of Jack and wielding a sledge hammer as he tore apart more walls, floors, and tiles of his many properties. It wouldn't replace the twelve punching bags he beat to shreds, or the worn soles of his running shoes as he attempted to let the rhythmic pace of his feet hitting the pavement pound out the memories of her. It certainly didn't take away from the roses he left at her gravestone every month, or the hours he stood outside a church every Sunday as he considered possibly stepping foot inside, if only to ask God "why"?

She knew it too.

At least he thought she knew based on the way her eyes would flicker to his. Her lips moved as she spoke to the others but her eyes stayed locked on his. Those same chocolate orbs that he dreamed about every night as he awoke with a start and attempted to tamper down his self blame and guilt. Those eyes that haunted him as his nightmares replayed the short gasps of air she dispersed as she struggled to breathe. The eyes that pleaded with him to let her go as he held her hand and her blood seeped between his fingertips. If he looked closely, sometimes he could still see the stain of red etched in the palms of his hands. The eyes that sometimes morphed into those of his father right before he took his very last breath. And sometimes...sometimes those eyes would morph into those of Elle, and a fresh wave of guilt and iniquity would wash over him as he thought about how there were two partners that he couldn't save. He promised himself when Elle left that he would be a better partner. He promised himself that he wouldn't ignore all the blatant signs in front of him...that he would follow his gut. He did better with Emily, but not good damn nightmares that led to introspection in which he tried to decipher just what it was about him that led to him failing his partners. He didn't push or prod with Elle and as a result he couldn't save her. He didn't push enough with Emily... And he wondered just what it was about him and his horrible luck with failing beautiful, brunettes with names that began with an "E", Elle, Emily, even little Ellie. Those nights where he stayed up and pondered...if he could have just been faster and got there quicker how he could have saved Emily, if he paid more attention and kept her close, how he could have saved Elle...and if he were older, stronger, and braver how he could have saved his father.

Those eyes continued to bore into his as she silently implored him to forgive her, to accept her apology, to not have their friendship disappear forever. Those same eyes that tried to ignore the way the splinters from the walls he built...the walls that she managed to break down,slowly gathered themselves up and formed a near impenetrable barrier between them again. She tried to ignore the fact that the trust he had, small and yet monumental, had been fractured. He could see it. He tore his eyes away.

He refocused on the steely glare of his fearless leader, who had the misfortune of harboring such a secret. His friend who had to carry such a heavy burden and lie through omission to his team. Somewhere, deep inside, he felt sympathy for Hotch...but it was buried too deep for it to really make a difference. If it were any other scenario he probably would have laughed at the irony of it all. The fact that the man who spent years lecturing, grilling...criticizing him about his lack of trust in his colleagues and friends...his team, had the unfortunate hand that forced him to do something like this. Hotch,who spent years trying to prove to him that he didn't need to take so much upon himself because his team was in fact trustworthy. Hotch, who tried to prove to him that he was wrong, just so happen to be in a precarious position where he actually proved him right. It was enough to make their circular argument about trust...mutual trust, null and void. Although the irony of that was that he did in fact trust his team, just not in a way that they could ever understand.

He felt sick, because all he could think of was how all the pieces of this twisted puzzle fell together now. He had ignored his instincts, written them off as the irrationality of grief and guilt. They never got to see her. They seen gruesome crime scenes every single day and yet they never got to see her lying on the table. They didn't see her at the funeral either. Even back then he wondered why they had a closed casket...wondered why they weren't able to press a kiss to her forehead or squeeze her hand one last time. They couldn't slip sentimental trinkets in the folds of slick satin ensconcing her lifeless form.. Even weeks after that, while sitting in a dim office watching his typically robotic leader become even more so as he tried to gauge the levels of grief in his team. He wondered then why Hotch, the one who had the toughest year of them all, the one who still hadn't finished mourning the death of his own loved one...was the one trying to determine their grief, the one trying to hold them together. He wondered where the person who should have been on the brink of a breakdown went to talk, and why...how, he could sit through the sessions and not break down himself. It was unthinkable at the time, but he dismissed it, mostly thankful that he didn't have to sit across from Strauss. Now he wondered how Hotch could sit through those sessions and not reveal the truth.

His stomach churned and he could practically taste the bile rising up in his throat. Eyes squeezed shut tightly and fists clenched as he tried to exhale slowly in hopes of dispelling some of the emotions, any of the emotions that ran through his body and left him so tense and wound up that he physically shook. He opened glossy eyes only to find the others staring at him...waiting for him to react. Various feelings etched in each and every one of their faces, ranging from concern and sympathy to fear and impending disapproval in case he went too far. They were waiting for an outburst...an explosion of anger and somewhere deep down he was waiting for it too.

He wasn't like them. He couldn't swallow the bitter taste of a breach of trust and betrayal and smile his million watt smile. He couldn't let inexplicable joy overtake a year's worth of anger and unfathomable grief. There was no way in hell he could dismiss the pain that re-opened old wounds of loss and abandonment...of failure and inadequacy...of fear and self-loathing. There was no way in hell he could forgive, forget and accept so quickly when he spent a lifetime facing demons that taught him otherwise. And yet, under the scrutiny of his team ,he knew that was exactly what they hoped that he would do.

He was aghast. For once even he was rendered speechless and there was nothing he could say to adequately sum up how he felt. He was the outspoken one...the one who was incapable of biting his tongue and stifling his opinion. He was the one who spoke up and spoke out and said whatever it was that needed to be said, asked what everyone was reluctant to ask. He was the one that questioned whatever he was being told...challenged and pried...But sometimes, contrary to what the rest of his team members thought, even he didn't have the words. He just didn't have the words, and even if he did, they just wouldn't matter anyway.

He swallowed hard, expelled another shaky breath and released the arm of his chair that he had been gripping so tightly onto. He shook his head and gritted his teeth but nothing could stop the thrumming of hurt and anger coursing through his vibrating body. He rose quietly and pulled away from the soothing hand that had to belong to his Baby Girl. He walked slowly;measured steps that went against the rapid beating of his heart. He stopped abruptly before Hotch...before her, and with an involuntary clenching of the fist so tight that his normally caramel toned hands were white around the knuckles; he knew that at best they thought he'd send it crashing against a table and at worst they'd fear he'd have it collide with Hotch's face, but then...sometimes they underestimated his control too. She reached out a hand slowly and attempted to touch his shoulder but he flinched involuntarily. He felt his body physically recoil from her attempt to touch and she pulled away, still pleading with him with eyes brimming with unshed tears, to forgive her, to trust her, to embrace her again.

He shook his head slowly and a nearly inaudible cry escaped his lips, before he tightened his jaw, furrowed his brow, and coached himself to breathe. He raised a hand and dragged it up her arm more tenderly than he thought he was capable of at that moment, and her warmth reminded him that she really was alive. He stopped at her shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze, letting his hand fall down her arm again until his fingers intwined with her hand for only seconds. He tore his hand away from hers before she could squeeze it and he stepped back before shaking his head again in disbelief...in disappointment, and swallowing back barely contained emotions. His eyes met hers briefly and he could not force himself to hide the internal struggle going on inside of him. He turned away, his eyes not meeting the distressed ones of his colleagues before a lone tear could escape from the corner of his eye. He paused briefly, just enough time to pull his cellphone out and place it gently on the table. He rested his hand there to compose himself, as he raised his other hand in the air in contemplation, because he wanted to scream something...say something. He let it stay there, for a brief second before it fell to his side limply in defeat. He ignored the frenzied voices of his friends calling after him as he strode out the glass doors of the bullpen.

She was alive.

It was all he ever wanted and yet the gaping hole in his chest wasn't healed. She was alive and once again he was alone, if only for a few days...because unlike the others it would take him longer than mere seconds to accept that. He knew it had to be done and that it was the only way to save them all, that given the circumstance he may have done the same himself. He knew that with every fiber of his being and yet it didn't make things okay. She betrayed them to protect them...Hotch and JJ betrayed them to protect her, but it was still a betrayal...it was still a huge betrayal and it hurt like hell. They were his family and they would remain so until the end, because the ties that bound them together were even stronger than blood and unyielding. It would always be that way...and he would always love them unconditionally and protect them always, and stand by them until the very end. They always stood strong in the face of any and every adversity, and overcame the toughest of times and the unfathomable of obstacles that too often got in their way. They were his family...and he would never walk away from them, even in times like this when he felt himself distancing. Even in times like this when he was the most incomprehensible to them. She was his family and he would love her no matter what and forgive her in due time...trust her in due time. That was what family was all about, but he wouldn't pretend...he couldn't pretend as if things would go back to being the same, because they weren't and they never would be.

fin