Are You Profiling Me?

-26-

"'I'm fine." You assured him. He still looked concerned. "We were almost bombed again and you're worried about a little bit of blood?" You asked.

"Let's go get you stitched up." He said, leading you away from the dead terrorist. You made it up the stairs. You couldn't take the elevator due to all the dead agents.

For a few seconds, the two of you simply stare at each other, as if measuring the distance between your shared trauma. Then he steps forward, his expression shifting to something that feels like a mix of relief and anger. His eyes flick to the bandages wrapped tightly around your torso, the dull, crimson stains marking the area where the stitches had ripped earlier, and his jaw tightens.

"You should have let them give you anesthesia," he says, his voice lower than usual, but sharp, like the cutting edge of a blade.

You can hear the concern beneath the anger, but it doesn't make it any easier to hear. You'd been dreading this moment—the moment when he'd let his guard down and reveal just how worried he'd been. And now, it's here. You've never been good at letting people in, especially when it means showing weakness. But it's too late now. You can feel it in the air between you—the crack in his calm demeanor.

You blink, your vision blurry from exhaustion. The pain in your abdomen pulls at your insides, and the stitches in your side are threatening to rip open again, the skin stretched too tightly. You'd felt it happen—had felt the sharp, burning sensation as they tore when you'd moved too quickly earlier. It had sent you into a cold sweat, but you hadn't wanted to admit it. You hadn't wanted to make a fuss.

"I'm fine," you murmur, though even you can hear the shakiness in your voice. You sit up a little, but the effort makes the pain flare again, and you wince, letting out a soft, involuntary gasp.

His eyes flick to the bandages around your abdomen, and his voice hardens slightly. "You're not fine, Danielle."

He steps closer, his face a mask of controlled fury and something softer beneath the surface—something you're not used to seeing from him. His anger isn't directed at you, not really, but he's angry all the same. Angry that you didn't let them help you when you were in agony. Angry that you put yourself through that kind of pain, and all because you couldn't let go.

"Hotch," you start, but you stop yourself. There's no point in arguing with him. Not now. You know what he's going to say next.

His voice softens, but there's a tightness there that betrays his control. He reaches for the edge of the bed, his hand fisting the metal rail. "You should have let them sedate you. You were in shock. You couldn't have handled that kind of pain."

You don't look at him. Instead, you stare at your hands, the pale skin bruised from the rough handling during the bombing. Your fingers fidget with the thin blanket covering your legs.

"I needed to stay... present," you say quietly. Your throat is raw from the strain of holding back the tears, from the fatigue that seems to weigh down every part of you. You hadn't wanted to lose yourself to the pain. You couldn't handle it—not after everything you'd already been through. Not after seeing him almost die just hours ago.

His eyes soften, but there's still a trace of frustration there, a quiet desperation. "I can't lose anyone else, Danielle. I couldn't—"

He pauses, his voice faltering for the briefest of moments before he continues, his tone quieter, as though he's fighting for control. "I've already almost lost too much."

The words hang between you two like a thread about to snap. You both know what he's referring to—the countless close calls, the near-death situations you've found yourselves in over the years. The chaos of this bombing had shaken you both more than you cared to admit. But neither of you had spoken about it until now. And in the silence that follows, you can feel it—how deeply the events of the day have affected you both.