Shit.
It's the only think he can think when her confession sinks in. He can't even find words. All he has is a running litany of language he hasn't had reason to use since his SWAT days.
(Foyet doesn't count.)
"I worked his case," she says when the silence drags on. "There was a joint taskforce."
He opens his mouth, but he still can't seem to make his voice work. It takes him too long, he thinks, before he manages, "Tell me."
She does.
It's factual, like a report. She's all but curled in on herself as she speaks, rattles off names, places and enough acronyms to build the alphabet.
(He tries to listen, he does, but he can't seem to get his mind off the fact that this is the second woman he's in- That he's cared about in the last decade being targeted by a serial killer. It's tunnel vision and it's terrifying and he knows it's going to affect the decisions he's going to have to make.
Emily's in danger.
Shit.)
"He was in Russia."
It's incongruous, a vulnerable admission in a small voice. Everything his Emily is not.
"He was supposed to be in Russia."
Protectiveness flares in his chest, hot and molten. Not the first time, by far, but the most violent. He stamps down on it, hard because it's not what she needs, no matter how much he wishes it were something she wanted. He sucks in a breath instead, forces himself to focus. "How long have you known?"
"A few weeks," she admits. "My handler called. I-" Her hand tightens around his wrist. "Hotch I didn't want to drag you guys into this. This isn't your fight."
This time, as protectiveness flares, it mixes with a violent and volatile possession and nurtures anger with it. That is unacceptable. She is his. She is theirs. She is not going to do this alone. So he reaches out and grasps her chin in a move that is too intimate, crosses a line they only ever cross behind closed, private doors. It catches her attention though.
"You are ours," he tells her, just barely resisting the use of the singular possessive, his voice a terrifying growl. Her face flares with things he won't talk about and refuses to consider.
"You are ours, do you hear me? We do this as a team and we protect our own."
"No," she protests immediately. "Not this time. Not this."
"Exactly this. Especially this. He brought this game to us."
Dropped it right in their backyard even.
Emily runs a trembling hand through her hair in a move so habitual Hotch isn't convinced she's aware she's doing it. "He brought it to me."
"To us."
He just barely manages not to shake her. He should find a better way to explain, tell her he wouldn't have survived Foyet if it weren't for the team (for her), but it is so far from the time.
He drops his hand from her chin, reaches for her fingers instead. "You need us."
Please need me.
She looks at him, just stares for a moment. "I'm going to get you all killed."
No, he thinks to himself, We're going to keep you safe.