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Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds. —Franklin D. Roosevelt
Hotch strides away from Karl Arnold's cell, barely aware of Prentiss behind him. The Eye of Providence is etched blood-red in his dimming vision, and he has one thought: Find Foyet. Hunt him down. And make sure he never threatens anyone again.
The taunts from the other cells have to compete with the roaring in his ears. But one breaks through: a sing-song, "The Reaper's in D.C.... The Reaper's in D.C.... "
Prentiss, caught up with him, meets his eye. She's heard it too.
Hotch turns to the cell it comes from. A young man leans casually on his reinforced window. His face is clean-shaven; his smile confident; his eyes ice-blue, keen as a blade, and full of innocence. Now that he has Hotch's attention he adds the pleasant amendation, "Or at least he's within fifty miles."
"How do you know that?" Hotch demands.
"I saw the postmarks on the letters he sent. Fredericksburg and Westminster. I know," he anticipates, "usually you need a third point to get an accurate geographic profile, but then we know he wants to stay close by to watch you suffer."
He feels his eyes narrow. "Who showed you the postmarks?"
"Some of the guards like me."
"I want names."
"I'm not a nark," the man says in an offended tone. "Relax, Hotch, no-one gives me anything I could possibly use to escape." Hotch eyes his clean shave sceptically, and the man adds with regret, "Safety blades. They make me give them back when I'm done. The point is, I can help you find the Reaper."
Prentiss puts in, even more sceptically, "And why would you do that?"
He flashes a bright smile at her, approving of her question, her distrust, and especially her physique. "I can be released into Hotch's custody. A GPS tracking anklet—"
"Oh, no," she says, shaking her head in disbelief.
"There's case law, precedent." He gives them both another grin. "I could be like Frank Abagnale."
Hotch points out, "They didn't put you in here for writing a few bad cheques," and walks away. Prentiss, still shaking her head, follows close behind.
But the man calls after them, "You're looking at his prescriptions all wrong."
As they're buzzed through the next door Prentiss murmurs, "How does he know that?"
Hotch says grimly, "If we were looking at them right, we'd have caught him by now." He asks the warden, "Who's that in cell five?"
"Neal Caffrey."
Prentiss's eyebrows shoot through the roof. "That's Neal Caffrey?"
"He's actually quite the model prisoner," the warden says, an abashed fondness in his tone.
She shakes her head. "I guess you've got to be pretty charming to convince eleven cops and two FBI agents to let you close enough to cut their throats when they know there's a cop killer on the loose."
"I'd like to see his files," Hotch tells the warden.
"Sure, follow me."
He starts to, but Prentiss holds him back in alarm. "Hotch," she murmurs urgently, "you heard what Caffrey said. No-one here's helping him escape so he's trying to convince you to do it."
"He's a sociopath," Hotch agrees. "He can still help us find Foyet."
"Hotch..."
He knows he's not thinking straight right now, and he knows he would never otherwise even be considering so outrageous a deal. But he also knows Foyet's out there and his family are in danger. And he knows Prentiss is maybe his last link to sanity. He forces himself to say, "Do you think he's going to cut my throat?"
"I think he's going to try." But she sees how things are and adds in resignation, "And I think you're going to have a hell of a time convincing Morgan."
He forgets, sometimes, though he's tried very hard to pretend it's perfectly natural, that Morgan is in command these days. But that will be over when they catch Foyet, and Morgan knows that. And as good a leader as Morgan is, Hotch knows how to get what he wants when it matters.
*
Neal Caffrey apparently came into existence on his eighteenth birthday. He spent three years stalking law enforcement officers, murdering them in their homes, and painting reproductions of classical artwork on their lounge walls in their own blood. When finally caught, his defence was that they were dirty cops.
Nothing is known about his family, but Hotch can make some guesses about his father. The question is whether Caffrey has already killed him, or whether he's still hunting him down.
And right now, Hotch doesn't care about the answer.
*
He brings him into the BAU conference room wearing a tracking anklet that will sound an urgent alarm with five agencies the instant he's more than two hundred yards away from Hotch and not locked in the Quantico holding cell where he'll sleep for the foreseeable future. Caffrey's made it clear that he's not overly impressed with those quarters, and Hotch has made it clear that he doesn't care.
JJ tells them, "Anderson's confirming the postmarks with the Postmaster-General."
Caffrey complains, "I already told you where they're from."
"Sit down," Hotch tells him.
He obeys easily and, unbidden, rests his hands in plain view on the table. "What about the prescription?"
Morgan, on his other side, is too good at the job to betray his discomfort with letting a serial killer — a cop killer — sit next to him. He looks up at Garcia, who is flustered but gamely says, "Me and the boy found a thyroid medication that has no substitute over the counter, you've got to get it from a pharmacist. But a lot of people are on it."
Rossi says, "Find—"
"The midpoint between Fredericksburg and Westminster," Caffrey completes the thought, nodding. Then half-lifts his hands in surrender at Rossi's hard stare.
Rossi continues: "Isolate names within a twenty-five mile radius."
"A hundred and fifty-three names," Garcia says.
Morgan says, "Well, he's not going to use his own name."
"Why not?" Caffrey asks.
Hotch is paging through the files, looking for names Foyet might have coopted. "He's a narcissist in love with his own mythology, but he's not going to make it easy for us."
"Wait a minute," Reid says, pushing himself to the board with his cane, "Foyet likes things to have meaning to him: the Eye of Providence, the addresses in blood he wrote on the bus that led us back to him. He's using the same thing with the alias."
"Like an anagram or something," Prentiss says. Reid has already scrawled up George Foyet and is now sketching lines and arrows.
"That's what I said," Caffrey points out, and is ignored. He tries, "You know there are computer programs that can do that for you."
JJ lets him in on the secret: "Reid's faster."
"Really?" He gets a speculative look in his eye. "Because I thought Penelope there was pretty speedy."
"Don't even try it," Rossi warns him. Reid is completely oblivious to the attempt to spark a rivalry between them, and Garcia looks less flattered and more nervous that he knows her name.
Names. "Reid," Hotch says, "he named himself 'The Reaper'."
And a moment later Reid says, "Peter Rhea," and a moment after that Garcia says, "There's a Peter Rhea in Arlington," and they have him.
*
They're bustling about making the calls and filing the paperwork and grabbing the gear they need for a full-scale surveillance and tactical assault. Hotch is torn between the urge to move now and the determination to let Morgan do it right, but he still notices when JJ takes a quiet call in a corner.
He doesn't listen in, but when she hangs up and tries to shrug it away, he tells Caffrey, "Stay there," and goes over to her.
She gives him a smile to say everything's fine, really. "Henry's got a cold. Will's going to take him to the doctor and get a prescription. Probably something he could just get over-the-counter," she jokes, covering for the fact that she wishes she was there.
"You know if you need to be with them...." Hotch lost track a long time ago of the number of Jack's doctor's visits he missed. He's fairly sure there are some he never even knew about.
"Hotch, I wouldn't miss this."
He gives a half-nod, because he appreciates it, really — he appreciates every body they can get on this, and would probably despite himself be hurt if she went home right now. But he also worries constantly that today will be the day she loses that precious balance between family and vocation.
Or maybe she's just that much stronger than he was.
She smiles again and promises, "I'll see them tonight." And then, in that way she has of trying not to be seen to be seeing, she ducks a hand to her earlobe and murmurs, "Uh, you might want to..."
Hotch turns and finds Reid standing in front of Caffrey, hand insistently outstretched. Caffrey sighs in resignation and fishes a pair of paperclips from his pocket; and, when Reid waits, a thumbtack.
Hotch tells Reid, "Sorry about that." While Caffrey patiently puts his hands on his head, Hotch checks his pockets for himself. And then his cuffs, hems, waistband, and hair.
"I'm kind of curious about the thumbtack," Reid says. "I mean, you can't exactly..." He makes an expressive gesture across his throat.
You could half-blind someone, if you were quick and they were slow. Or pop open a disk drive. But Caffrey says, when Hotch has finished checking his mouth, "I was keeping my options open."
"Huh," Reid says.
Morgan comes out a moment later and signals Hotch to one side; Reid waves that he's got Caffrey. When he goes over, Morgan says, "Look, Hotch, I know he's never killed anyone on active duty, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to take him with us."
"Foyet might be out, or he might be long gone," Hotch points out. "And if he is, we don't want to waste any time profiling his next move."
Morgan shakes his head, a concession: "We always did say serial killers can make the best profilers."
"I'll keep him cuffed to the rail," Hotch says.
Morgan doesn't like it, but none of them have liked much about the last several months. "Okay," he says, and to the room at large, "Let's go."
Hotch takes Caffrey again with his left hand. This time Caffrey says, "You don't have to shield your holster from me. You know I don't like guns."
"Why is that?" Reid asks curiously.
Caffrey looks surprised, as if it should be obvious. "Bullet holes are too small. You want to get all the blood out, you've got to use a knife."
*
The apartment is silent. They can't tell if Foyet is there or not, and until they know either way they can't move in.
Beneath what he hopes is a calm exterior, Hotch itches with impatience. Prentiss in the passenger seat looks like she shares it but doesn't want to say anything with Caffrey sitting cuffed to the rail in the back.
"My fingers are going tingly," Caffrey says helpfully.
It's almost certainly a lie, but they have been waiting a long time. Hotch hands Prentiss the field binoculars and turns in his seat. He presses on the fingernails of both hands, sees the white fill promptly with healthy blood, and says, "You're fine."
"The cuffs are chafing my wrists," Caffrey tries again as Hotch faces front.
Prentiss drawls over her shoulder, "I can dig out some tissues if you want some padding."
"Are they aloe?"
She rolls her eyes and doesn't deign that with an answer.
After a moment Caffrey says, "Hey, Emily? I think I like your hair out better. Don't get me wrong: the ponytail, very practical, but the way you had it hanging loose before just makes a really elegant frame for your face."
Hotch has tensed, and would already have interrupted, but Prentiss has waved it off. She tells Caffrey, "Honey, no offense, but I've been flirting with way too many serial killers recently."
"I'm not just a serial killer," he objects. "I'm an artist."
Prentiss and Hotch share a glance. "Oh, well," she says expressively.
Hotch condescends to explain, "We've heard that before."
Caffrey stares out the window, sulking and blessedly silent, until Morgan calls them back to the command centre.
*
When they storm the apartment, Foyet is long gone: mail dumped on the floor, meal half eaten, clothes missing, gun safe unlocked. He knew they were coming and he's in a rush, and when Foyet gets cornered he starts shooting. (A bus full of passengers and enough blood to paint his message all over its windows.)
Reid, left behind at first with his cane, now brings Caffrey up to join them. While Garcia hacks into the laptop and Hotch stands with his thoughts locked in a helpless nightmare whirl, Caffrey prowls the apartment with his hands cuffed behind his back looking faintly disappointed at the mundanity of it all.
Then Morgan spots the surveillance photos on the laptop.
"Who's that?" Caffrey asks, peering at the screen.
Hotch says tersely, "That's Sam Kassmeyer. The U.S. Marshall assigned to my family." He dials and gets Sam's voicemail; he knows as he leaves his message it's not going to be answered.
"We're going to need to deploy another SWAT unit," Morgan says.
JJ shakes her head. "That's going to take another half hour."
Sam's in trouble now, and Hotch can't wait any more. He barrels out and down to the SUV, Caffrey close behind. Rossi catches up with them and unceremoniously rebuckles and cuffs Caffrey in the back seat while Hotch starts the engine.
*
"What do you know about this guy, anyway?" Caffrey asks as they drive, sirens blaring.
Hotch snaps, "I've known him a long time, and he's a good man."
"Oh, for— I'm not asking if I want to kill him, I'm asking if he's going to protect them."
"He said he would and he will."
Rossi adds, "Hotch wouldn't have asked him to do this if he wasn't the best, kid."
"How's his pain tolerance? If Foyet tortures him the way he tortured you—"
"He won't give them up," Hotch interrupts, his knuckles white where he grips the steering wheel. He refuses to remember right now the tooth-gritting, blinding spasms of pain as Foyet stabbed the Eye of Providence line by line into his chest. He has the wheel in his hands and no time for anything else: he has to find Foyet. Hunt him down. And make sure he never threatens anyone again.
He drives, spins the wheel for a sharp right, and drives. Morgan and Prentiss are still right behind them.
"So Foyet's going to have to find your family another way."
"There is no other way," Rossi says. "That's why he's going after Kassmeyer."
Caffrey admits, "They do say no-one in WitSec who's followed security guidelines has ever been killed while under active protection." It might even be reassuring, except he adds, "I always wondered what happened to make them load on all those caveats."
Rossi cocks his head to one side. "You never killed any U.S. Marshalls," he notes. "Why is that?"
"I guess it just never came up."
"Really." The implication is clear.
"Yeah, well. I only got two FBI agents and you know there's a lot more corruption than that in the Bureau."
Hotch has no patience for the lie or its untangling. "Can we save the custodial for later?"
"Come on, Hotch," Rossi says, "You know it makes a difference who he identifies with."
He lifts a few fingers from the wheel to concede the point.
"Wait a minute," Caffrey says indignantly, and Hotch grits his teeth again: "you thought I identified with Foyet? He's got no talent, no insight, no originality, just a tag he sprays on every billboard he comes across. 'Woo, look at me, I am Fate, Master of Life and Death'. Seriously, we get it already."
"So tell us something we don't already know," Hotch tells him. "How is he going to look for my family?"
Caffrey doesn't answer, and Hotch lets the speedometer drift a little higher.
*
They find Sam lying in several pools of blood on the white carpet of his lounge floor. Apparently Hotch is done with flashbacks, or else he's just too busy rushing to Sam's side while Rossi calls for an ambulance.
By some miracle of willpower or Foyet's skill with the knife, Sam is still conscious, though barely coherent. Hotch makes out a slurred, "I wouldn't—"
"We're calling an ambulance," Hotch reassures him. He hears footsteps but doesn't look up: it will be Morgan and Prentiss and they can't do anything now. "Hang on," he tells Sam.
"I tried..."
"Just hang on. Hang on."
"I'm sorry."
His blood runs cold. Everything runs slow. "What are you sorry for?"
"I tried..."
"Are Jack and Haley safe?" Does Foyet know where they are? Is he on his way to them — has he already reached them — is it too late while Sam struggles just to breathe? It doesn't take that much breath to say Yes. "Sam, tell me what happened."
"I don't know how he got in. I just got home... He was there... Shot me."
"That's not right," Caffrey says. JJ and Reid have brought him in and he's looking around the room in puzzlement. "He took off his jacket."
Morgan snaps, "Clocking off does not make him fair pickings."
"Morgan, think," Caffrey cajoles, "you get home, you put your phone where you can grab it, you take off your jacket—"
"Yeah, so?"
"So where's his phone?"
"I tried," Sam mutters as the sirens sing their reedy song. His pockets are empty: only keys.
"Sam," Hotch says, "does he have your phone? Does he have Haley's number?"
"Speed dial..."
Caffrey turns away with a stamp of frustration, and Hotch wants to.
"He told her I was dead... you were dead... location compromised."
"What's her number?"
"It doesn't matter. He told her..."
"Sam?" He's fading, too fast, and they're all running out of time. "Sam, I need to understand. What did he tell her?"
"Get... disposable..."
The paramedics arrive. Reid rattles off Sam's vitals and though Hotch wants desperately to keep questioning him he has to move aside and let them do their job. If they can stabilise him—
Caffrey darts up to his side. "Come on."
"We need to find out where she is." Asking the US Marshalls will take too long. If the paramedics can stabilise Sam—
"She'll be coming to Foyet. Come on."
Rossi tells Morgan, "Prentiss and I will canvas the neighbours." Maybe someone noticed a strange car. Usually people don't.
Reid adds, "I don't see anything out of place."
Morgan shakes his head. "He took the phone, he must have left something."
"He left Sam alive," Hotch says. The paramedics bustle Sam outside with a focus that suggests that mightn't be true much longer. He follows, wishing he could tell if Sam is even breathing.
Impatiently Caffrey insists, "He already told you. Foyet told her their location's been compromised, he's making them come to him. He wants you to find him, to see what he's doing to them—"
Reid blurts, "It's all about demonstrating power over you: the location—"
"My house." It's not his house anymore, but it's where his nightmares always start.
"Hotch," Morgan says, "if you're wrong—"
And head in the wrong direction— "Someone needs to stay with Sam." Reid is already clambering with his cane into the back of the ambulance.
But they're not wrong. He knows it with the same gut certainty that always tells him, in his nightmares, that when he turns this corner he's about to see Jack and Haley—
Find Foyet. Track him down. And make sure he never hurts anyone again.
*
JJ would drive, if he gave her half a chance, but he's not giving up any of the last shreds of control he still has. She rides shotgun instead, on the phone to Garcia and the Marshalls trying to pinpoint the location of Sam's phone.
It doesn't work: the Marshalls' phones are designed to bounce between towers. So when she hangs up he does the only thing left. He grits his teeth and calls it himself.
That desperate negotiation doesn't work either. Tired or not, Foyet isn't going to be flattered into stopping now. All it does is tell Hotch that Haley is there, now, with Jack, opening the gate to let Foyet drive in and—
When Foyet hangs up on him, he tells JJ flatly, "It's the house."
She calls Morgan. He's sending out a full tactical deployment. And Sam is dead.
It feels as if someone is sitting on his chest, stealing his breath, working the knife in a little deeper. He holds the wheel as if it gives him any control at all over his family's fate, and answers his phone the instant it rings. "Foyet."
It's not Foyet. "Aaron?" Haley's shocked voice greets him. "You're okay?"
She's still alive, he thinks in elation.
And in despair: for now.
If he speaks, he will weep. He swallows and prepares the words and swallows again. The lump only grows in his throat, and it hurts to speak past it. "I'm fine."
"JJ," Caffrey says urgently from the back seat. Hotch tunes it out. He hasn't got time for his antics: he has to drive, and think, and be strong for his family.
"But..." Haley says in confusion. "He said that..." And she knows, as he knows. "Oh, Aaron...."
"He can hear us, right?" He wants to make Hotch listen to—
"Yes." Her voice breaks, and she half-sobs an emphatic, "I'm so sorry."
"Haley?" JJ's whispering with Caffrey is distracting him, though he can't hear what they're saying. She rolls down her window and the cold roar of the wind helps clear his head. He tells Haley, "Show him no weakness. No fear."
"I know. Sam told me all about him. —Is he, uh..."
"No," he lies quickly, "Sam is fine."
—Except he's talking to his hand. The phone is gone. JJ's snatched it away and out the window, and the wind roars so loud he can't hear it fall or Haley call or JJ telling him and telling him and telling him until it dimly breaks through, "Foyet wants to kill her while you listen."
He knows Foyet wants to kill her while he listens, but those moments were all they had left and now they're smashed on the road, crushed and scattered under the weight of a thousand blind wheels. His hand's a fist, his eyes a blur, and if he didn't have to drive—
"Hotch?" JJ insists, determined beneath her apprehension.
"Did Caffrey tell you to—"
"He's right," she says. "Foyet needs you to—”
He chokes out, "You know what he did last time I hung up on him."
"He wanted your attention then. Now he's got it, he knows you're coming—"
"He'll hurt them!"
She swallows, but doesn't apologise. "He won't kill them until you're there. It gives us time."
He forces his fist around the steering wheel and makes himself breathe. They're probably right. He has to believe they're right, though the wind still wails. "You can close the window," he says roughly.
She does, and there is silence.
Which Caffrey breaks with a cheerful, "So you two burst in the front like he's expecting and distract him with the whole negotiation thing, and I'll sneak around the back and—"
"You'll stay in the car," Hotch tells him.
JJ, after a pause, admits, "He will be expecting us.”
And the moment he sees Hotch there, he'll shoot Haley and still have Jack hostage. "I'll park out of sight. We can cut through the neighbour's yard."
"I can help," Caffrey protests, but it only reminds Hotch to check his handcuffs one more time before they go.
*
Through the neighbour's back yard, waving the neighbour away from the windows. Over the fence, onto the mush of fallen magnolia flowers. Softly unlocking the kitchen door and softly closing it when they're inside, lest a draught betray them.
Every step fearing to hear a shot ring out.
Never expecting to hear Caffrey in the lounge saying confidently, "You want to kill them all yourself — I respect that."
"Where is he?" Foyet demands, suspicious.
"Don't worry, he'll be here soon. And I'll stay out of your way, but can I use his blood when you're done?"
"What?" Haley asks in alarm, weak but alive. JJ looks a question at Hotch, but he shakes his head tightly. Caffrey is moving around the room and Foyet is tracking him: if they go in now, he'll see them at once.
"I just want to paint something with it," Caffrey reassures Haley, and adds hastily to Foyet, "Not to take credit, more like a homage."
"A homage," Foyet repeats, sounding bemused.
"Exactly. This wall here— If we just—" A few bumps suggest he's taking down one of the flower studies. (Red poppies: sleep eternal; dreams, good and ill.) "Oh, that'd be perfect, don't you think? Come on, say I can do it."
"Sure," Foyet says, like some kid has just asked for the cap from his beer, and he can't figure out why, but on the other hand, "why not?"
"Oh, thank you, this is going to be great. You have no idea—"
And then there's a crash and a shot fired and a shriek, and Hotch and JJ burst in, guns seeking a target.
Stumbling towards them is Haley with a wide-eyed Jack. "Aaron—"
"It's okay," he tells them. His free hand draws them behind him: his relief knows not to relax and he can't yet resolve that bloody wheel of Caffrey and Foyet rolling on the floor. "It's okay, go with JJ."
They go, the muzzle of JJ's gun the last thing to back out from the corner of his eye. The door bangs. They're gone; they're safe.
And as he watches through his frontsight, it's Caffrey who rises, teeth and eyes grinning white while the blood runs down his face. His hand, with the loose end of his handcuffs, holds a shard of glass. By his feet lies the discarded painting and Foyet's throat draining onto the carpet. "Where do you keep Jack's paintbrushes?" he asks.
Hotch's chest heaves in rage, but two-handed he holds the gun steady. Ready. "Drop the glass," he warns.
"It'll only take a moment," Caffrey promises. "It'll be a pastiche: the Rota Fortunae in the style of his Eye of Providence tag."
"Drop it now."
"Oh — a pastry brush!" He takes a step forward, and hastily back again half a thought before Hotch can decide to squeeze the trigger. "Come on, Hotch, it's soaking up. You want me to use my fingers?"
"He's not your father," Hotch snaps. It must be the adrenaline, this unreasoning fury that Caffrey's killed him. "He isn't even a cop, and this is not his lounge."
Caffrey stares at this new take on things, and looks down at the body. "You're right," he admits on consideration, and not without regret drops the shard of glass. "It'd just dilute my message."
"Hands behind your head." He holsters his gun and cuffs him again, for what it's worth. Caffrey's left thumb is swollen from a dislocation and his right palm has been sliced up by the glass he killed Foyet with, but his flinches are more autonomic than felt.
And then, keeping Caffrey in his field of vision, Hotch crouches to make sure, beyond any possible doubt, that Foyet is dead.
Touching that placid flesh and stagnant blood is like waking from a bad dream and trying to work out, through drumming heart and sleep-fuddled mind, what is real and what only memory. The threat is gone, he tells himself, securing the gun and a knife that hadn't yet been drawn. This is over. He breathes again (though yet raggedly) in a world where his family is safe, their would-be murderer stopped. Never mind how that happened. This unaccountable fury is only a remnant of adrenaline, only so sharp because it's no longer dulled by dread.
This is over, and soon he'll with Jack again, trying to kiss away what can never be forgotten, trying to make up to Haley what can never be made up. Soon he'll be with his team again, winding down as best they can from the long hunt, preparing for the inevitable inquiry and battle over Caffrey.
It's a battle they'll win. Reid and Rossi, even Prentiss, already like him. Garcia and JJ, even Morgan, will soon find his pleasantly transparent charm more compelling than their own old nightmares of being shot by, of shooting a dirty cop; of seeing a father slain. Of course none of them will ever forget he's a sociopath on a mission, any more than they'd forget a gun was loaded. But they'll use him.
But Hotch — why does he want so furiously to keep Caffrey with the BAU, not as some reward, but like Tantalus to walk down this river and never again dip his own finger in it?
This is over, he tells himself. Foyet is dead, and Hotch has nothing to do but rise and place his hand, wet with Foyet's cooling blood, on Caffrey's arm. He sees no anger at the possessive gesture: there is only the twitch of cravings frustrated, leavened by a self-deprecatory grimace.
Hotch turns him to the door, saying pleasantly, "So your father's still alive." All of Caffrey's murders were a message to him.
Caffrey shrugs and deflects: "Yours isn't. You must have been devastated when you found out about the cancer."
That's private but not secret, and he refuses to let it discomfit him. Matter-of-factly he points out, "Well, he was my father."
"No, I mean, you're just getting old enough to finally confront him and get your revenge, and you find out he's already dying?"
Hotch's hand is on the handle of the front door. It's brass, and cold, and he doesn't turn it. He remembers his first, self-assigned, surveillance mission: watching for proof of the girlfriend so he could demand an explanation, knowing full well how his father would respond to such insolence, and confident that this time he could defend himself.
That this time he could more than defend himself.
And the only proof he found was of bank and hospital visits, and it felt as if the whole world had been torn away from him.
"Oh!" Caffrey says in realisation that actually sounds dismayed. "Hotch, I'm sorry."
Hotch parries automatically, "You're not capable of feeling sorry."
"Of course I can feel sorry. I messed up. I thought you wanted Foyet dead, but of course you wanted to kill him yourself and I've just done the same thing the cancer did."
"That's not what I wanted," Hotch says, feeling as if he's swallowed the door handle and it's stuck, cold and hard, halfway down his throat.
"Yeah, it is. Just give me a chance: I know it's not the same, but you can have the next one, I promise."
"There won't be a next one," he insists. Caffrey may have everything else about him right, but he's wrong about this. "I don't murder people, I arrest murderers."
"I know," he says with perfect sincerity and perfect serenity. "You're a good agent and you'd only kill someone to defend yourself or others." There's no trace of mockery in the words, and yet they mean something different on his tongue.
Hotch, off-balance, can't work out where to even begin to argue. He turns the door handle instead, ready to broach this last gate from the muddled underworld he's dwelt in for too many months. Ready for this all to be over.
"Hey, if it helps," Caffrey confides, his smile breaking as bright and blood-streaked as the dawn, "you know I'd never let you cross that line."