Hello!
Here's a short story that I've had hanging around on my laptop for a while, now. I forgot it was there, but since I've rediscovered it, I thought I'd post it.
Thank you for reading.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Sorry for any mistakes.
Panic Attack
Hotch knew there was something wrong. He knew from the way his hands shook and his heart stuttered. From the way he clutched onto the wall for support, feeling like his ears would burst, like everything was simultaneously too loud and too quiet. The hands and fingers touching him, trying to help but making it worse. The voices that were too close and yet too far away. From the tears falling down his cheeks and the rapid rise and fall of his chest even though he wasn't getting in enough air. He knew.
"Everybody back up." He knew that voice. So calm and collected and yet with just the right amount of urgency and charge. "Back up."
And then he was alone. The people too close now too far away and he wanted to reach out to them and bring them back and tell them that they had to stay. And then the voice was back again.
"Take a seat on the floor, Aaron." He felt gentle hands on his arms as he was helped onto the nice cool floor, his heart still racing, his chest still rising and falling too fast, a nausea overcoming him. "Do you understand what's going on?"
He shook his head. Or he hoped he did anyway. The world was turning in all the wrong directions and he couldn't be certain.
"You're having a panic attack." And then the face accompanying the voice came into view, kneeling in front of him and if he could have done he would have breathed a sigh of relief.
"Dave..."
"Shh." Rossi interrupted and Hotch was grateful because he had no idea what he was going to say anyway. "Focus on slowing your breathing down. I'm going to take your hand, okay?"
And then Rossi took him by the wrist, placing his hand flat palmed against his chest and Hotch could feel Rossi's heartbeat. Slower than his, a healthy beat and a sudden fear hit him. His father had only been 47 when he'd died of a heart attack. What if...?
"Aaron." Rossi's voice was firm. "I need you to breathe with me. In through your nose, 1... 2..." And Rossi's counting continued, and his other hand came to clutch at his opposite wrist and it occurred to Hotch that Rossi was monitoring his pulse. "You're sitting on the floor of the Bullpen." Rossi noted and Hotch frowned through his panic. He knew that. "Out through your mouth." He did as he was told, hearing Rossi's praise. "In through your nose. 1... 2... You're surrounded by myself, Emily and JJ. Out through your mouth."
And slowly but surely, Hotch felt himself begin to calm down. His racing pulse slowed and his breathing evened out. The nausea lingered, but it wasn't as strong. Rossi continued to hold onto his wrists. Noise had turned normal and the lights were no longer so bright.
"That's it." Rossi's voice remained calm and Hotch latched onto that, looking up to meet his eyes. "JJ, can you go and bring me a wet paper towel. Cold water. Emily, can you go and get a bottled water, please?"
His eyes never left Hotch's as he spoke and the pair fled to fulfil their errands.
"Do you feel like you can stand up?" Hotch nodded and Rossi slowly helped him to his feet, guiding him over to Reid's desk, the closest to them. "Keep breathing slowly, Aaron." He pulled up a seat to sit opposite him as JJ returned with the cold paper towel and Emily brought a bottle of water so cold condensation was dripping from it.
Hotch felt the blessed cold of the water as the paper towel was rested over the back of his neck and he took the proffered, already open bottle of water from the profiler, taking tiny sips.
"You two can get back to work, now." Rossi ordered gently. "He's going to be fine."
Thank you for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it.
I'd love to know what you think.
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