Periphery

Disclaimer: I wish, but no, don't own the characters/show.

Author's Note: Whelp, here it is, an actual two-parter story! My apologies up front if you are or have ever been a medical professional and my representation isn't up to snuff. Basically flying by the seat of my pants on this one. Hopefully a suspension of disbelief can be achieved and everyone can enjoy. Happy reading!

Hotch, she'd noticed over the years, had a penchant for lurking.

Not quite in one's personal space but always well in one's periphery, usually with arms crossed or eyebrows knitted or both.

She wonders if he's even aware of it now, so used to just being there, almost omnipresent in his alpha male status, as if his mere presence would make others think twice about messing with his pack. She also wonders how many times it actually has worked.

He's taken so much flak for them, because of them, and he continues to do so tonight, on the phone explaining to someone higher up on the food chain why she'd practically eviscerated their UNSUB instead of arresting him.

After almost having her arm taken off with a machete it seemed like the logical thing to do was to protect herself with whatever was available, which at the time had been a handsaw in that little homemade chamber of horrors, her gun lost in the initial ambush. But there would be questions; always questions, and she had to admire how smoothly Hotch seemed to be handling those inquiries while sending a glance every now and then her way to check on the state of her injury. The Kevlar he still wore no doubt stopping any insistence on the hospital staff's part that he not use his phone.

Luckily for her it had been a glancing blow, though still deep enough to require stitches, and if properly looked after the scar would be barely noticeable, her too chirpy nurse informed her as she wrapped the wound. Emily had half a mind to lift up her shirt and ask if this is what she meant by scars. Which wasn't fair, really, she was just tired and hurt and really, really hated hospitals.

"There, all done! I'll go let your boyfriend know he can see you now."

Wait…what?

"Sorry? Boyfriend?"

"The gentleman waiting over there?"

She was sure her shock would have been more profound if the painkillers she'd been given for the stitches weren't in full effect, but at that point she could only stare dumbly.

"He's my boss."

"Sure, honey, because everyone's boss would ride in the ambulance with them and watch them like hawks through medical procedures."

"He'd do that for anybody on our team. We're as much a family as a unit."

"Right. Well, I'll let him know you're ready to go either way. Dr. Jackson would prefer it if you stayed overnight to make sure that nothing awful was festering on that blade, but we've run all the tests we can run as well as given you an extra strength antibiotic."

"Part of our UNSUB's profile was that he was a neat freak, he would have disinfected his torture tools after each use. Judging by the way everything was arranged in that cellar I'd say that part of the profile was accurate."

Chirpy nurse couldn't have left her fast enough, only stopping to say a few words to Hotch before scurrying down the hall.

The bemused expression on his face as he entered her examination room said it all.

"I scared her that well, huh?" she couldn't help but smile, but Hotch only shook his head.

"I think you put Reid to shame with that one, Prentiss."

"Damn, I'm good. Well, let's get out of here!"

She eagerly rose to her feet, not expecting the rush of dizziness that overtook her. So maybe that adrenaline she was running off of had finally run out after all. But rather than fall to the hard floor, she felt larger, strong hands fasten around her waist, virtually holding her upright.

"You alright?"

Hotch was not a touchy-feeling kind of guy. In fact she was sure under the word "tactile" in the dictionary it said "Not Hotch." But there he was, well in her personal space now, his arms tight around her, lips a thin line and concern in his eyes. She tried her best not to think about what that look did to her insides, much less the feel of him against her as she quickly found her footing. He needed to go back to the periphery, and she needed to regain her bubble, fast.

And yet, there she remained in his arms long after she'd recovered.

"Um, Hotch?"

"Right, sorry. Just wanted to be sure you wouldn't fall again."

"Right."

And just like that, he was gone.

Personal bubble reestablished, back straight and eyes forward, she made her way out to the reception area and the waiting team.

Everyone knew what her injury was, but her welcome into the fold was downright tear jerking.

She received hugs from JJ, Reid, and Morgan, a warm shoulder grab from Rossi, and Reid was stuck to her like glue on the trip home. Garcia had been equally clingy when they'd finally gotten back to the office. Not that their actions didn't make sense, this was the first hospital visit she'd had to make since her return, the bad memories associated with her and hospitals were sure to be stirred up.

And it was with this thought in mind that she tried to make sense of Hotch's behavior as she sat on her couch in the dark that night, Sergio blissfully unaware, asleep, and purring on her lap.

He'd continued to be in the periphery after the hospital. In the seat in the corner of her eye, above the seat she'd sat in next to Reid, never quite near, but there all the same. Like always. But how he'd held her before, that was up close and personal. He'd ever acted that way towards her until today, so was it recent circumstances or something else? Or was she reading too much into nothing? Was it just a simple instinctual reaction to keep her from falling? But then why had he lingered?

Her head and her arm hurt, but the wheels kept turning, and she sighed in frustration just as a knock came from her door.

Old habits from months of hiding have her on alert instantly, and she makes sure her gun is in easy reach as she checks the peephole, only to find the very object of her frustration right outside.

"Oh fu-."