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The air on the jet was stifling.
It wasn’t hot — no, in fact, the air conditioning felt good on your clammy skin. The cabin just felt so small.
The team was returning to Quantico after a difficult case. The unsub attacked mentally unstable, suicidal victims, claiming that he was “doing what they were too weak to accomplish.” You had tried to talk him down as he held his latest victim at gunpoint, a young woman with severe depression, but he pulled the trigger.
The victim reminded you of yourself, a few years ago: eyes haunted, bags from sleepless nights marring her cheeks, arms lined with scars.
Everyone had cases that keyed them up; this one was your trigger.
You sat across from Hotch, who was working on paperwork, as usual. The rest of the team was asleep in their respective seats; even Reid was laid out on the couch. Your gaze was out the window, however, wishing you could see the stars. Your finger picked at your cuticles. You winced as you pulled one until it bled, instinctively bringing it to your mouth. The blood tasted the way gunpowder smelled.
“Y/N?” You looked across the small table at Hotch, who was looking at you, brows furrowed in concern.
“Yes?” You hastily removed your finger from your mouth. It was still bleeding.
“Are you alright?”
You gave a weary half-smile, half-grimace. “I will be.”
He pursed his lips. “Let me get a bandage for your cut.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to…” But he was already walking back toward the kitchenette. You sucked your finger back into your mouth.
The blood tasted like the soft smile of content on the victim’s lips.
“Here.” He cleared off the table of his paperwork and handed you a cup of tea, the first aid kit tucked between his arm and side. You sat it on the table.
“Thank you,” you murmured. Your eyebrows shot up as he took your wrist and pulled your hand to him from where you had curled it to your collarbone.
He unfurled your fingers, hands gentle as he wiped an alcohol wipe against the blood. You thought he was being a little overcautious, but you felt yourself relax as he dabbed Neosporin on the small tear.
“What about the case got to you?” he murmured, his gaze on your small injury. You felt your shoulders tense again.
“The last girl,” you said, voice small. “Her face when he pulled the trigger…”
“She was sick,” he said, looking at you. You felt that gaze pierce your heart.
“She could have gotten better,” you whispered.
“Y/N.” He wrapped the Band-Aid securely around your finger but didn’t let go of your hand. “You did everything you could. An unsub like that… It’s almost impossible to talk a man like that down.”
You shook your head. “She never had a chance to get better.” You swallowed roughly, looking down at your joined hands.
“That girl was me, Hotch,” you whispered. “Five years ago, and I would have been that girl smiling at her death.” His hand tightened imperceptibly around yours.
“You’re not her anymore.”
You shook your head, hair falling into your face. “You don’t know how close I am to being her again,” you breathed more than said.
“Y/N.” He murmured your name like he was in pain. You looked up at him, surprised at the tears threatening to fall down your cheeks. “Just ask for help, and I’ll be there.”
You shook your head again, a scoff leaving your lips. “You can’t protect me from myself, Hotch. No matter how much you think your job needs you to.”
“Hey, look at me.” His eyes were serious but kind. “Do you need someone to stay with tonight? If not me, then ask anyone else on this team.”
“I-I’m not ready for anyone to know.”
He nodded. “I have a guest bedroom, and Jack’s visiting his grandparents this week. Come stay with me.”
You gulped down a breath. “Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t sure, Y/N.” He smiled softly and clutched your hand between both of his. “You’ll be safe with me.”
You let a soft smile cross your face. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “Anytime.”