Are You Profiling Me?

-16-

You lie tangled in your sheets, your breathing shallow and uneven. Every few seconds, your body jerks, as if trying to escape something unseen. Your face is tight with distress—your brow furrowed, lips parted as if to cry out, but nothing comes.

Then the nightmare grips you harder. You feel yourself back there again—Syria, the cell, the cold metal of chains biting into your skin, the haunting faces of the men who held you. You're running, but there's nowhere to go. They're all around you, and you can't escape.

You thrash in your bed, your voice breaking in your sleep.

"—No, no... please..." Your hand grips the sheets tightly, knuckles white. You're fighting to get away from them, to be free, but the terror won't let go. You're back in the dark, the sounds of explosions echoing in your ears, a voice whispering threats in a language you can barely understand. You're trapped, and you can't breathe. "Stay back! I can't—please—"

You can hear yourself crying out, but it's as if the sound is coming from someone else. Everything is spinning. Everything is slipping away.

You don't hear the door open, but Hotch does. His footsteps are light as he approaches your bed. The last few hours, he's been flipping through case files, distracted, but something told him to check on you. You've been restless for a while, murmuring, calling out in your sleep. It's been eating at him.

He watches you from the doorway for a moment before moving quickly to your side. Your body convulses, your face twisted with fear. He shakes your shoulder gently, his voice low, almost pleading.

"Danielle, wake up. It's just a nightmare. You're safe." He says. You don't wake up. The nightmare still holds you in its grip. Your body jerks harder, and your breathing speeds up, as if you're drowning in it. Your eyes are still closed, trapped in the endless loop of terror. "Danielle. It's me. You're safe. Wake up. Please."

His hand hovers over your shoulder, but you don't respond. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked bursts, your eyes darting under your lids, searching for something. He's watching you with wide eyes, frustration building—he can't reach you. He doesn't know how to pull you out of this.

He shakes your shoulder harder, but it's no use. You're still in it.

"Danielle, please... you're safe. You're not there anymore." He's practically begging at this point. Your breathing is erratic, too fast, too shallow. You call out again, your voice cracking with fear.

"Don't—don't touch me. Please... No... No, not again..." You whisper desperately. You're caught in it. You're still there, still trapped. Hotch's eyes tighten, his jaw clenching with frustration. He doesn't know what else to do. You're slipping away from him, drowning in the memory of the past that he can't touch.

Finally, Hotch pulls out his phone. His fingers fumble as he dials Derek Morgan. He knows, in this moment, he needs someone else. Someone who can reach you.

The phone rings twice, and then Derek answers.

"Hotch? What the hell is going on? It's 2 a.m.!"

"Danielle's having a nightmare. She won't wake up. I need you here. Now."

"Nightmare? What do you mean she won't wake up? Is she okay?"

"No, she's not okay. She's still in it. She's not waking up, Derek. I need you to come over. I don't know what to do."

"I'm on my way."

Hotch ends the call and turns back toward you. He watches, helpless, as your body convulses under the weight of the nightmare, your face contorted in terror.

He crouches beside the bed, resting a hand on your shoulder, trying again to wake you. His voice is low, almost a whisper.

"Danielle, you're safe. You're not there anymore. Please, wake up. You're not in Syria. You're with me. You're here." But it's like your mind is light-years away, lost in the depths of your memory. You call out again, your voice barely a whisper.