Disclaimers: Ah, you know these people aren't mine, right?

Note 1: Others were writing Foyet POV and I got challenged and I can't resist a challenge and I had no damn idea where it was going to go when I started it

Note 2: Occurs within a few days after Faceless, Nameless (0501)

Midnight Mic: The Confession of George Foyet

Boy, good thing this is anonymous, right?

Here's my first secret: I was in that apartment for almost 48 hours. Can you believe it?

Forty-eight hours (well, forty-six and change, actually) alone to eat Aaron Hotchner's food, to drink his bourbon, and to read his mail. To listen repeatedly to every pathetic baby-talk message he's ever saved of his son's voice on his answering machine. To paw at my leisure through his photo albums, his school yearbooks, his dirty laundry and his dresser drawers. Want to know what brand of condoms he squirrels away beneath his socks? Want some hints as to who might have answered his late-night booty calls?

Be nice to me, and maybe one of these days I'll name names.

Names. Plural. As in, two or more.

Although that may just be because nobody wants to do him twice, ya know? I mean, this guy is not Mr. Suave.

I spent hours perusing his personal, non-work computer files. Want to know which porn sites he tried without success to flush from his browser's memory cache? He isn't nearly as tech-savvy as he thinks he is. He has also done some serious job-searching recently. Apparently the stresses of the job and the pressure this dragon lady supervisor has put on him have driven him to considering other avenues of employment.

And I would like to believe, in all modesty, that I've had something to do with that, too.

But let's cut to the chase, shall we?

I hid in the laundry nook. Convenient to both kitchen and bedroom if I needed to retreat, and no annoying noisy doors to open. I didn't know for sure that he was going to pause to grab a drink before he changed. I suspected it, though. He also keeps his finances on that personal laptop. The boy isn't exactly putting Jack Daniels and George Dickel on a third shift, but his liquor bill has risen significantly since our special moment in Boston.

Our first special moment.

Still thrills me, yes it does. There's only one first time.

For anything.

So I challenged him and he played tough, but then the damn fool decided to strike out, and – well, he needs some remedial hand-to-hand training. Although it's true that I had the advantage of regular food and sleep over the last few days and he apparently had very little of either.

But that's not my problem. Ya know? A few punches and a swift kick or two and he was on the floor with that deer-in-the-headlights stare.

And when he saw the blade, those dark eyes of his turned liquid. He raised his hands and gave that old "Maybe it's because I'm not afraid" horseshit his best shot, but he's seen a lot of my work, and he knows my quality.

And you can take this to the bank: He was afraid.

And the first thrust was perfect, just kissing the trachea, but not tearing it. But he knew how close he had been to death. I could see it in his eyes. He knew that the only way to stay alive was to lie there and shut up and let me do as I pleased with him, because if he distracted me, I might accidentally kill him.

And he didn't really want to die. Not at first, anyway.

The knee in the crotch helped, too. Any time he started to look ambitious, I just leaned forward a little, let my weight sink down where he didn't want it, and he would catch his breath and gasp and his eyes would get huge and I would say, "Do I have your attention now?"

Like that Verizon thing. Do you hear me now?

I had him where I wanted him for hours, and if you ask him nicely, he'll probably tell you that my knife work was the least of his worries.

I … touched him. No, not that way, you dirty-minded people.

Gently. Sweetly.

And told him, in exquisite detail, every brutal thing I had done to every single helpless man, woman, and child since he turned down my offer. I regaled him with endless vivid recreations of their agony and terror, their screams and their pleas, their bargaining and their despair.

"Then I sliced her here," I would say, "and her whole body arched away like this ..." and for a while he could keep his Aaron Hotchner, Boy Fed, thing going and compartmentalize it away. But after a while, it got to him. It got to him real hard.

Your fault, Agent Hotchner, I would say after each bit of description. That one's on you.

Like the litanies in church when I was a kid. Call and response.

Your fault, Agent Hotchner.

Your fault.

And you'd have thought it was him I was torturing. He shuddered and whimpered and cried like a baby.

Who'd have thought it could be so much fun not to stab someone?

I barely express how excited I am about our next date. I'm already making plans.