Aaron Hotchner gripped the arms of his chair and pulled himself to his feet as gingerly as he could, wincing as barbs of pain shot through his middle. Over-the-counter painkillers had done nothing to relieve it. He tried to straighten, but found he had to lean slightly to the right. Every other step pulled at his lower right side as he limped to his office door. It almost made him chuckle to think of what he must look like: more of a shambling zombie than a stolid team leader.
When he reached the door, he rested his hand on the doorknob and took a steadying breath, expanding only his chest. He assumed his usual impassive expression, opened the door, and stepped out.
He felt their eyes on him, watched them catalog his pale face, his twisted posture, his clenched grip on the railing. Naive to hope he could fool a profiler.
"Conference room. Now," he managed.
He could practically see them exchange glances after he turned his back.
He sank heavily into his chair as he watched the team file in, casting worried looks his way. Rossi caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. Hotch shook his head minutely. Rossi sighed, but sat without comment.
"Hotch, are you alright?" Prentiss asked.
"Fine."
"Are you sure? You look-"
"I'm fine, Morgan. Where's Garcia?"
"Here, sir!" She fluttered in like a bright tropical bird. She pressed a button on the remote, and the image of a young brunette filled the screen. "This is… Oh my gosh, sir, are you alright?"
"Garcia!"
"Yes, yes, of course, sir. This is twenty-six-year-old Kathy Phillips, found dead last night…"
Hotch tried to pay attention to what Garcia was saying; he briefly looked through the file on the table in front of him, but found himself unable to focus. The throbbing center of pain was spreading, sending out tendrils like an insidious growth. It took all of his effort to maintain his stoicism.
At some point, he realized everyone was waiting on him. He blinked. "Wheels up in thirty," he said.
The team members lingered as they left, sending him the same concerned looks with which they entered. Eventually, only Rossi remained.
"You look terrible."
Hotch exhaled sharply through his nose.
"You know, it's okay to go home. You don't have to be fine all of the time."
"Yes, I do," Hotch ground out.
"No, you don't," Rossi insisted.
Hotch stood, attempting to speak, but as he opened his mouth his vision grayed.
When it cleared he was staring at a table leg with rough carpet pressed to his face. Rossi was calling his name and tapping his cheek, and he could hear footsteps racing towards them.
"What happened?" JJ.
He rolled onto his back and tried to sit up, only to be held in place by Rossi's hand on his shoulder. "Easy."
"I'm calling an ambulance," that was Emily.
"Don't," he grunted.
"Then what the hell is the matter with you?" she bit.
He set his jaw and met her hard gaze. "Stomach," he surrendered.
"Where?" Reid asked.
"Lower right."
He gave the specified area a gentle prod, and Hotch bit back an undignified yelp.
"I'm not a medical doctor, but I'm pretty sure that's appendicitis. Emily, call that ambulance, please."
"On it."
Hotch looked around at the faces of his team members, expressions aimed at him ranging from concern to pity to anger. He allowed his head to drop back and let out a slow breath.
He was fine.
He had to be.