"This is just ridiculous." I protest, wincing away from the EMT's fiftieth antiseptic wipe.

"This is procedure." Hotch replies, somehow amused, firm, and protective all at once.

I scoff, but the pain in my… well, in my everything is becoming genuinely excruciating with every passing swipe of the disinfectant and corresponding smart-ass remark. "Hotch, this is not 'procedure'. This is overkill, and you know it." He rolls his dark eyes without taking them off of the EMT's deft hand.

She asks abruptly, "How long have you two been together?" We both turn to her in shock – she hasn't spoken since she ordered me to sit on the edge of the rig. A sly, soft smile crosses her features, makes me think that she has administered these treatments to her own children's scrapes a thousand times in addition to her patients'. A short, dark haired Latina woman, she gives off an aura of understanding and solidness. I like her.

"Uh, about a year." Hotch responds with uncharacteristic reticence, clearly nonplussed that Ms. Alvarez, as her badge reads, saw right through our carefully-constructed, professional-profiler deceit. I really haven't cared who knew about us since the team found out. Anyway, tragedy has a way of tearing down both physical and emotional walls with the same random ease.

"That sounds about right. Congratulations." She winks at him and he grins in spite of himself, which makes me feel just a tiny bit better. "Anyway, I've said this to a lot of people in my day, but you, my dear, are actually lucky to be alive." Her petite hands begin putting shiny steel instruments in their casings and used cloths in the bio-waste disposal bin without really looking.

A foot to my right, Hotch strikes a defiant stance, allowing himself to indulge in the fact that Alvarez knows we're together. "See, Emily? I told you that you needed medical attention."

The kindly EMT nods her agreement, to my growing dismay. "Indeed. Miss Prentiss, you have at least three cracked ribs, evulsions to both of your palms, both knees, and your forehead, a sprained left wrist, a gash on your right cheek that will require stiches, almost definitely a minor concussion, and roughly sixty percent of your body is covered with scrapes, bruises, cuts, or some combination thereof."

Hotch's tired face blanches more with every injury she ticks off; it would be almost comical if it didn't fill me with such guilt. "Don't forget this." I hold up my arm against its screaming protests, showing her the tear on my brown leather jacket sleeve.

"Emily please, this is serious!" Hotch scolds, but it lacks any real bite. He's blaming himself, not me. Funny how that works. Guilt never seems to touch those who cause pain, only those who bear witness to it.

"Hotch, I am serious! This was my favorite jacket!" That's not a lie, at least. It was a beautiful, dark brown leather jacket, thin and soft, with a drape closure that pinned the right side to my left shoulder. It's a little casual for the BAU, so I was excited when I got to wear it for the consultation. God, that was almost four days ago.

He softens when Alvarez chuckles under her breath, and runs a hand gently through my matted hair. It seems to be the one action he could have chosen that doesn't hurt me at all.

"Can we please go to the hospital, just to be safe? I'll even stop for one of those ridiculous machiatto-whatever-the-hell-they-are drinks on the way there, if you want."

My eyebrows shoot up in consideration, but my aversion to the emergency room wins out. "No. Close, but not quite."

He looks genuinely exasperated, like he does when Reid won't stop rattling off peripheral information or Rossi is being unnecessarily cryptic in an attempt to seem wise and aloof. "But – "

"Excuse me, Agent," Alvarez cuts in, saving me from more of Hotch's bargaining, some of which I'm sure I couldn't have resisted, "From what I understand, Miss Prentiss has been in a hostage situation for three days. She volunteered herself for this beating to spare another of your agents, she prevented you gun-toting G-men from charging in before the time was right, probably saving all these innocent women and children in the process, got everyone to safety when you did finally go in, saved that same agent from imminent death on her way out of an explosion, and still has the wherewithal to joke about her jacket being ruined? If I were you, I'd stand the hell down, sir. She seems more than capable of taking care of herself."

I sit up straighter and turn expectantly toward Hotch, loving, devoted, protective Hotch, and somehow still enjoy reveling in my affected superiority as I smile at him.

He rolls his eyes in similar dramatic fashion, mumbles a "Yes, ma'am", and leans in for a kiss. That, I'll gladly always accept.

I turn one more time to Ms. Alvarez. Deadpan, I ask, "Do you do resumes?"