CHAPTER TEN: SOMEBODY'S GOT TO SAVE THIS COUNTRY FROM CERTAIN DOOM AND LET'S FACE IT, THAT PERSON IS ME

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IT WAS A full-blown concert.

With the soft glow of twilight spilling into the bullpen, Beatrice Sterling found herself amidst an impromptu performance in her and Garcia's office. A mischievous grin played on her lips as a screwdriver, a most unconventional accessory, danced playfully between them. In the heart of the room, an audacious ladder stood tall, an unwitting partner in her rhythmic escapade. The relentless thump of the music took hold of her, its infectious beat guiding her swaying hips and lithely moving limbs.

The room's dim lighting had caught her discerning eye after an arduous bout of paperwork, yet summoning an electrician seemed far too mundane for the likes of the blonde analyst. Armed with determination and a spare lightbulb, she embarked on her mission to brighten their shared space.

As the chorus unfurled its wings, she surrendered herself to the enchantment, letting her head sway and her body twirl. The screwdriver, once a mere tool, now took center stage as an unexpected prop, transformed into her private microphone.

With a flourish that blended audacity and finesse, she leaned into the ladder, a sentinel of support in her fanciful performance. "Got me looking so crazy right now, your love's got me looking so crazy right now," she sang, her voice intertwining with the melody.

As her dance reached a crescendo, Beatrice's outstretched arm traced an arc through the air, and with a twirl as graceful as a swan's, she spun to face an unexpected audience. "Got me hoping you'll page me right now, your kiss! Got me hoping you'll save me-holy shit!"

A gasp escaped her parted lips, freezing her mid-twirl. There, by the doorway like an apparition materializing from the ether, stood Aaron Hotchner, his hand clung to the doorknob like an anchor in a tempestuous sea. Her hand instinctively flew to her chest, her breath stolen by both surprise and embarrassment.

"You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!" exclaimed the woman. "Couldn't you have knocked?"

His response came with characteristic stoicism, a masterclass in deadpan delivery. "I did," he intoned. "Twice."

"Well, I suppose subtlety isn't in your repertoire, then." she jabbed, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose slightly. "So, uh, how long have you been there?"

"Just enough."

"Yeah, okay," Her fingers deftly moved to command the music to retreat into the background, its vivacious energy now subdued. A self-conscious gesture followed as she smoothed the wrinkles on her sleek sleeveless black dress, an ensemble that seemed to have a flirtatious conversation with her best features. A subtle blush tiptoed onto her cheeks, accentuating her awareness of the slightly unorthodox situation. "So, uh, is there anything I can help you with? I have already left the performance evaluation on your desk earlier."

"Yes, I saw it." he nodded. "What are you still doing here? I thought everybody went home."

"I was actually trying to change the lightbulb."

"Do you need any help?"

"Uh, no. You can go home, Hotch. I got this." Her reassurance carried a trace of confident resolve. A knowing nod accompanied her words, directing her gaze toward Garcia's slightly askew desk. "I still got a table to fix."

Hotchner's gaze lingered on her for a heartbeat or two, the weight of his consideration palpable in the air. A measured shake of his head then followed, "I'll stay. I have something to ask you."

With a nonchalant shrug, Beatrice cast her heels aside, letting them tumble haphazardly as she ascended the ladder. She beckoned to Hotch, instructing him to extinguish the light and employ a flashlight to illuminate her task. With practiced dexterity, nimble fingers deftly manipulated the stubborn light bulb, threading a seamless replacement into its socket. A triumphant breath escaped her lips as her task neared completion, only for the mundane to swiftly pivot into chaos.

Her heart raced as her foot slipped on the ladder's treacherous rung, a desperate instinct propelling her to clutch at the nearest ceiling pipe. Suspended in a precarious dance with gravity, she hung in the balance, fear reverberating through her veins. The potential catastrophe loomed large-visions of collapsing computers and ensuing chaos threatening to take shape.

"Shit, shit, shit! Hotch! Hel-"

Her plea was silenced by the sudden press of his strong hands on her waist, the heat of his palms seeping through the fabric of her dress, a firm and reassuring anchor that gradually lowered her back to solid ground. Her own hands, pale against the backdrop of his shoulders, clung instinctively. Locked in a silent exchange, their eyes entwined in a moment of unspoken connection, the world around them blurred into insignificance. His cologne, a heady blend of musk and cashmeran, enveloped her senses, its intoxicating allure both dizzying and beguiling.

A collision of strength and vulnerability, Bea found herself cradled in arms that exuded unwavering solidity. Her thoughts spiraled, weaving wild fantasies that danced at the edges of her consciousness—scenarios daring enough to evoke blushes from even the most modest of souls.

"Are you okay?" His breath, warm against her skin, sent ripples of sensation across her senses, momentarily stealing her voice. Time held its breath as their gazes remained ensnared, the charged silence an unspoken testament to the uncharted territory their encounter had breached.

You are seriously fucked.

Summoning her fortitude, words finally found their way to her lips, "Yes."

His hands, once a steady anchor, relinquished their hold on her waist, allowing Beatrice a moment of recalibration. Her fingers instinctively adjusted her glasses, their polished frames a tangible link to her familiar routine. Casting aside the traces of their impromptu gravity-defying interlude, she smoothed the creases on her dress, each motion deliberate and composed.

With a practiced detachment, she redirected her focus with haste, the flush of her cheeks thankfully concealed in the absence of light. Crossing the room with purpose in each step as she approached the uneven table, the tableau shifted seamlessly from charged intimacy to pragmatic functionality as she deftly cleared the table's surface of its assorted clutter. The floor beckoned and she eased herself into a prone position, tools in hand. "Uh, Hotchner, can you help me?"

"Sure. What do you need me to do?"

She directed him to hold the tabletop steady while she focused on securing the screws. Their joint effort began in a comfortable silence, but she soon felt a twinge of awkwardness that settled between them. Searching for a way to break the silence, she pondered topics that might spark a conversation. "You know, I think we might need to consider raising the budget for property damages in the next proposal. Derek seems to have developed a habit of breaking down doors more frequently than I can keep track of."

"I'll have a talk with him about that."

"You know, I never thought I would be sharing a leadership role with you, honestly. I planned to keep things on the down low. Head down, not draw attention to myself." Her voice carried a hint of vulnerability as she expressed her thoughts.

"That would be impossible."

"Why is that?"

"You're talented, smart, extremely stubborn. . . and bea-" He cleared his throat." You can't look away when something's wrong."

Her lips curved into a soft smile, a small chuckle escaping as she scratched her eyebrow. With the tabletop adjusted, she turned her gaze toward him, considering asking for his assistance with the other side of the table to complete their task.

Hotchner's confession continued, the words laden with a sense of revelation. "I always thought I could do this job alone."

The blonde's throat tightened, her eyes fixed on him. "But?"

A pause hung in the air, tension threading between them like an unspoken connection.

"But now, I don't think I want to do this job without you."

Their eyes locked, a silent understanding passing between them.

A sudden realization seemed to jolt Beatrice into action. She cleared her throat, sitting up abruptly and narrowly avoiding hitting her head, thanks to her leader's protective hand. A deep breath steadied her, and she carefully extracted herself from the situation, rising to her feet.

"Uh, thanks for your help tonight, Hotch."

His concern lingered, "Do you need--"

"No, no. I can clean up here myself. Thank you." She said before remembering something. "Oh, yeah! What was it you wanted to ask me?"

Hotchner opened his lips slightly, but then shook his head. "It's okay. Don't mind it."

"Oh, o‐okay. Thanks for the help again!"

As he left, the analyst positioned herself in front of the door, her back against it. Her heart raced, the echo of their proximity still resonating within her. This evening had taken unexpected turns she hadn't anticipated. She returned to her seat, collapsing into it, a swirl of emotions clouding her thoughts.

What the hell, Bea? He just got divorced for fuck's sake!

The warmth that seemed to settle within her chest whenever they shared moments nagged at her thoughts. Lately, her feelings had been growing more apparent-her desire to be near him, the need to spend time together, even the excuses she'd conjured to facilitate their interactions. It all swirled in her mind, leaving her bewildered.

Ah, so it seems she might cross that line she herself drew.

"Well, shit,"

OUT OF SIGHT, out of mind.

Beatrice believed if she avoided Aaron Hotchner then whatever fondness she had would diminish.

That was not the case.

She did all that she could in her defense. She would leave her reports on his desk when he wasn't around, bring her extra work in her home, and have his daily treat be given by Prentiss. She even avoided him in elevators and stayed behind to accompany Garcia in the recent cases they handled. She made certain she wouldn't have to spend time with him.

But, of course, fate is a fickle mistress.

It will always find a way to screw you over.

Amidst the glittering chandeliers and opulent decor of the charity gala, the blonde haired agent found herself in the midst of a sea of elegant gowns and tuxedos, the buzz of animated conversations filling the air. Yet, despite the grandeur of the event, she couldn't help but feel a sense of boredom gnawing at her.

As she sipped on a glass of champagne and tried to engage in polite small talk with some of the other attendees, she couldn't shake the feeling of restlessness. The speeches about the importance of charity and the seemingly endless parade of wealthy donors didn't hold her attention.

Inwardly, Bea felt a sense of relief that Hotchner wasn't present. While she had grown fond of their moments together at the office, she couldn't deny that the tension and unspoken feelings between them had left her both exhilarated and conflicted. The respite from that emotional whirlwind, even if it meant enduring a rather dull gala, was strangely welcomed. As she began to immerse herself in the lavish world of the gala, she suddenly collided with a solid figure, her breath catching in her throat.

"Sterling,"

Aaron Hotchner stood before her, a vision of handsomeness in his tailored tuxedo. His sharp, clean-cut features, framed by perfectly combed dark hair, exuded a commanding, refined charm. Hotchner's stoic demeanor only added to his magnetic appeal. His intense, unflinching gaze seemed to pierce through the lighting.

Oh, hot damn.

The woman found herself mentally cursing her own vulnerability to his striking appearance. She almost wanted to punch him for being so undeniably attractive, especially in this moment when she was trying to maintain her composure.

It was as if the universe had conspired to remind her that Aaron Hotchner was not just her colleague and friend, but also an exceptionally good-looking man who could effortlessly unsettle her with a single glance.

"Hotchner! I certainly didn't expect to see you here," she quipped, her surprise evident in her tone.

"I didn't expect to find myself here either, but Rossi can be quite persuasive when he wants to be."

"He's here?" mused the woman. "I take it you two were invited by my uncle?"

He promptly nodded.

"Well, in that case, I hope you enjoy the evening. I will now be on my way to explore those tables over there. Those cute desserts were my sole purpose in attending this. . . very pretentious event."

"Sterling,"

"Yes?"

But before he could articulate his thoughts, he seemed to reconsider, shaking his head. "Nevermind."

She beamed, "Ah, very well, then. I'll be stationed at the chocolate fountain if you happen to need me."

With the lingering taste of chocolate-covered strawberry still on her lips, Beatrice decided to venture further into the depths of the gala, her curiosity leading her to explore the lavish displays and conversations happening around her. But just as she was starting to lose herself in the opulent atmosphere of the event, her eyes locked onto a figure she knew all too well, standing just beyond the entrance to the grand function hall—Aaron Hotchner.

He was engaged in a conversation that immediately piqued her interest. His usually composed demeanor appeared unsettled as he spoke with a blonde-haired woman and a man of a similar age. Their hushed voices and the tension in their body language were enough to signal that something was amiss.

Her curiosity instantly transformed into concern. Without a second thought, she began to make her way toward the trio, weaving through the elegantly dressed guests. As she drew closer to the trio, their conversation came into sharper focus. She overheard the man with the blonde-haired woman say, "It's quite nice to see you around here, Hotchner."

"Yes, you've never been a fan of these gatherings."

"I'm only here for official matters, Haley," stated Hotchner with a touch of formality in his voice.

The name that followed, "Haley," sent a shiver down Beatrice's spine. Haley, Aaron's ex-wife? Memories of their late-night heart-to-heart conversation in his dimly lit hotel room flashed before her eyes. Was the man beside her the one who had taken Haley's place, the reason she had left Hotchner?

The analyst blinked, a surreal sense of déjà vu washing over her as she studied the man's face. Recognition struck her like a lightning bolt, and she couldn't help but gasp softly. It was Henry Monroe, prominent entrepreneur in the maritime shipping industry.

A rush of memories flooded back. She had once agreed to a blind date with Henry, an encounter that had been characterized by immediate mutual understanding that a romantic relationship was not in the cards for them. But there was more to it-Henry's eagerness to pursue a physical connection had been a clear deal-breaker. Beatrice had swiftly declined any further meetings, unwilling to compromise her values.

"So, you have someone with you tonight, Agent Hotchner?"

Her boss hesitated, his response hanging in the air.

Beatrice initially considered walking away, giving them their privacy, but an inexplicable urge pulled her back. She felt a need to stand by him, especially in a situation that appeared fraught with tension and unspoken history. His initial hesitation and the palpable tension in the room hinted at an uncomfortable situation. Beatrice couldn't bear to see him struggle or feel trapped in a social dynamic that might be unsettling for him. So, with a quick turn, she gracefully draped her arm around Hotchner's, assuming an air of confidence and charm.

"Hotch? Where have you been? I've been looking all over for-oh, hi there!" she interjected with a warm smile, her tone effortlessly engaging. "Wait, Henry? Henry Monroe? Oh, my god! Nice meeting you again. It's been what. . . two years? since we last saw each other."

"Hi, Beatrice. It's really no wonder that you're here. How's the senator?"

"Oh, Aunt Marjorie's alright. How's business?"

"Faring well."

She turned to Hotchner, her smile curling into a grin. She could see he was silently questioning her motives, but she only gave him a beaming smile, hoping he would catch on and let her be. She turned her attention back to the other blonde female, raising her hand for a shake. "Oh, you must be Henry's plus one tonight. Beatrice Sterling, FBI Cyberintelligence, now temporarily assigned to the BAU." She placed her hand above his chest, stroking him softly. "Hotch's date for the evening."

The initial surprise of encountering Hotchner's ex-wife, Haley, and her new companion, Henry Monroe, still tingled in the air around her. She felt like an unexpected player thrust onto a stage in a drama she hadn't anticipated.

"Hi, I'm, uh, I'm Haley. . . I'm, uh, Aaron's ex-wife." she shifted her gaze to Hotchner as she shook Beatrice's hand.

The introduction marked a sudden shift in the dynamics of the conversation, as if she had thrown a pebble into a still pond, creating ripples of intrigue and curiosity. While her inner thoughts raced with questions about the history between Hotchner and his ex-wife, she maintained her poised exterior. "Oh, oh, okay! Yeah, uh, Hotch told me a lot about you and Jack. How's he, by the way?"

"He's doing well. Thank you!"

Bea's eyes darted to her wrist, and she nibbled on her lower lip as her concern deepened. "Oh, goodness, Hotch, we really ought to return inside now. The Senator will be on the lookout for us, and we're expected to be seated at her table." With gracious courtesy, she turned her attention to Henry and Haley. "It's been a pleasure to meet you both this evening. I hope you enjoy the rest of this event."

"Tell Jack I will visit this Saturday."

"I will."

Guiding her partner, the blonde led the way back into the hall, their steps hastening as they reached a second-floor balcony. Finally, with a quiet breath, she broke the silence. "Hey, um, I'm sorry for intervening earlier. I don't know what came over me. I just felt the need to get you out of that situation, and you might be quite upset with me for meddling. I know you're more than capable of handling it yourself, but it's just. . ."

"Sterling, it's all right. In fact, I'm grateful you pulled me away from that."

The connection between them seemed to deepen in the intimate setting of the balcony, where honesty and vulnerability made their presence known. The woman gently broached the delicate subject. "Are you still affected by what she did to you?"

Hotchner let out a sigh, his features reflecting a mixture of reflection and acceptance. "I thought I would be, but not anymore. Surprisingly, I felt nothing earlier." He continued, his voice tinged with a note of contemplation. "Honestly, I wish nothing but happiness for her now. I hope he can give her what I couldn't: time and presence."

A full minute passed in silence before his gaze found hers. "Did you mean it?"

Beatrice raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful curiosity in her eyes. "Mean what, sir?"

"What you said earlier."

"Which part are you talking about?"

"That you're my. . ."

"Date for the evening?" She finished his sentence with a smirk, crossing her arms. "Wait, hold on for a minute, is this what you've been trying to ask me for weeks now? You wanted me to be your plus one tonight?"

His reply came after a moment's contemplation. "I'm usually not good with this stuff-"

"Shut up. You just wanted this pretty blonde standing beside you all night."

". . . Maybe."

"Agent Hotchner, did you just-" His answer had taken her by surprise, and his straightforwardness made her heart race. As they stood on the balcony, the cool night air caressed Beatrice's skin, a stark contrast to the warmth she felt in her chest. "Well, alright then, I'll be your date."

"Sterling-"

"Beatrice," she interrupted, her tone affectionate. "Tonight, you call me Beatrice. I am your charming plus one for the evening, after all."

"Then, tonight, you call me Aaron."

The moment was charged with an unspoken connection, and as she agreed to be his date, her heart skipped a beat. The transition from calling each other by their formal titles to using their first names signified a shift in their relationship. It was more than just a casual agreement; it felt like a step towards something deeper. The banter carried with it the potential for something more, something she couldn't quite put into words, but she was eager to explore.

"Well, Aaron, I believe the champagnes are-"

A sudden and frantic voice pierced the air, cutting through their conversation.

"Bomb! There's a bomb in the elevator!" The sudden cry sent shockwaves through the attendees and the magnificent chandeliers overhead seemed to dim, as if in response to the ominous words.

Bea's heart pounded in her chest, her pulse echoing in her ears. The well-dressed guests now wore expressions of alarm, and the sophisticated ambiance was shattered by the urgent cries for help. Her heart raced as panic filled the room. She exchanged a startled glance with Aaron, and they immediately sprang into action.

"Call NYPD and have them send a Bomb Squad now!"

"Yes, sir!"

TWENTY MINUTES.

Twenty agonizing minutes had slipped away, and still, there was no sign of the uniformed men they desperately awaited. Her usually immaculate appearance was now secondary; her once-tamed hair hastily tied up, and her feet were relieved from the burden of heels. The furrow in her eyebrows deepened with each passing second. Throughout the entire ordeal, Beatrice had clung to the hope of locating her missing aunt and uncle. Her heart ached with worry for their safety, a worry that only intensified as time dragged on.

"What happened?" Rossi's voice broke the tension, pulling the woman's attention away from her own concerns.

"Maintenance man recalled one of the guests reporting that the elevator was stuck on the tenth floor," relayed Hotchner, sharing the grim details. "He suspected trouble when the cameras failed. That's when he heard a female voice inside, claiming a bomb was attached to the elevator door."

"It's clear the bomber's intention is maximum devastation," explained the analyst, extending the blueprint of the building. "Look here, the elevator shaft is a critical point. It begins five floors below in the car park, rising up through the entire building. A malfunction there could trigger a chain reaction, spreading flames rapidly. The stack effect in the shaft would accelerate the fire, endangering the entire structure."

"Then, we have no time to lose. Who's the victim?"

With her hands tucked in her pockets, she replied with a mix of apprehension, "We'll find out now."

As the security guard pried the doors open, they revealed a haunting sight-a shadowy figure of a woman with blonde hair, clad in black, her back turned towards them. Bea's heart raced as the sickly, sweet metallic odor tainted the air, triggering a surge of dread. Her gaze fell upon the faint trail of crimson staining the floor, and she followed it with a mix of horror and concern.

"Who's there?"

"Ma'am, please, we're here to-"

"Beatrice, is that you?"

Recognition jolted through Beatrice at the sound of her uncle's wife's voice. "Aunt Marj? What‐what are you doing here? Why are you here?" Her words stumbled out, a mix of concern and confusion.

"Ma'am, we need to verify your identity. Are you Senator Marjorie Sterling?" The security personnel interjected, their tone serious and methodical.

"Yes."

The blonde's mind raced, a tumult of emotions flooding her. The reunion with her aunt in such a dire situation spiked her anxiety. She hoped for answers amidst the chaos, seeking to ensure her aunt's safety while confronting the gravity of the circumstances.

As the men exchanged urgent information about the impending crisis, the concerning details painted a vivid picture of the dire circumstances.

"ETA on bomb squad?" Her boss's voice cut through the tense air.

"Seven minutes,"

"Jesus,"

"Traffic's bad. An oil truck totaled ten vehicles and. . ."

Beatrice, determined to contribute to a solution, swiftly retrieved a long metal rod and a compact mirror from her purse. Her hands moved with determined precision as she affixed the mirror to the rod, intent on aiding the situation. Her actions elicited a pause in the conversation behind her, drawing the attention of those present. Fighting against time, she inserted the makeshift contraption into the gap of the elevator doors. The need to swiftly identify the threat and devise a plan for dismantling the potential bomb fueled her actions, her heart racing with the pressure of time.

Delving deeper into the narrow gap, her focus intensified as she caught a glimpse of the menacing apparatus, her eyes narrowing in intense concentration. The sight of the explosive caused a knot of tension to tighten in her chest.

Hotchner's inquiry seeped through the anxiety-laden air, "What is it, Sterling? Is it an IED?"

Her voice was strained but steady as she confirmed, "Yes." Her gaze honed in on the colored wires interlinked with various mechanisms. "That's a detonator connected to inflammables," relayed the blonde, her voice quivering slightly. Beads of sweat trickled down the side of her face, the stress of the situation palpable. "Power source. There's the fuse wire. Alright, finding the switch now."

As she meticulously identified each component, the familiarity with the machinery caused her racing heart to briefly slow. It was only ordinary- "Ah, shit!"

"What is it?"

Her eyes fixated on the small, seemingly innocuous level that was connected to the explosive. It was a clever addition-a soda bottle, precisely filled with water to detect any minute vibrations.

"It's a level," she responded, her voice tinged with frustration as she lowered her makeshift contraption, her mind cursing the unknown assailant behind this threat. "If the level goes off balance, or if it detects vibration, the bubble inside the cylinder moves and triggers the fuse wire, causing an instant explosion. It's an IED." The realization of how finely tuned the threat was added an extra layer of tension to the already precarious situation.

"Wait, a timer started counting down," Marjorie Sterling's statement pulled Bea's attention away from the device in a frantic jolt.

"How much time is left, senator?"

"There's one minute. . . and forty seconds remaining."

A knot tightened in Beatrice's stomach as she rose to her feet, pivoting with a grave sense of responsibility. "As of this moment, the area within an eighty-two feet radius of this point is a kill zone. Everyone must be evacuated beyond the parameters. Speed up the-" Her directive was abruptly cut off by the crackling voice of one of the security men's walkie talkie.

"The bomber is here at the entrance. I repeat, the bomber is here at the entrance! He has a hostage. . ." The urgent message echoed through the static, plunging the situation into further chaos and alarm. "I repeat. . ."

The team leader took charge of the situation, gripping the communication device as he responded, "This is Aaron Hotchner from the FBI. We are en route."

The cyber analyst's determination surged, her fists clenched at her sides. "I'm staying here,"

Her boss's stern tone cut through the tension. "No, you're not."

But Beatrice wasn't ready to back down. She met Hotchner's gaze squarely, her eyes reflecting unwavering determination. "Hotch, with all due respect, this building will be reduced to ash and rubble by the time the bomb squad arrives. I'm the only one here with enough experience in handling explosives. I can disable it."

"Hotch, she can do it. Trust her," interjected the other profiler, offering his support in her favor.

"I will stay behind and bring her out soon, sir. I'll radio you. Synchronize your timer with mine and take everyone out with you,"

Hotchner's reluctant agreement was evident in the single, solemn nod he offered. Beatrice recognized the concern etched across his usually stoic demeanor. She could see the tension in his jaw, the unspoken worry in his eyes. They were left with no choice, and he knew it. "Be careful, Sterling. That is an order."

"You too."

"Stay safe, kiddo," Rossi's reminder resonated with a mix of warmth and concern. The fleeting words of caution accompanied Rossi's hurried steps as he followed Hotchner and the other guard, rushing down the stairs, leaving Beatrice behind in the tense silence of the moment. She was acutely aware of the magnitude of the task ahead and the potential risks involved in defusing the imminent threat.

Returning her focus, she raised her makeshift contraption again up back to the explosive and attempted to talk to her aunt, but noticed she had passed out. "Aunt Marj! Stay with me, dammit!"

Twenty. . .

Beatrice maneuvered her hand through the narrow gap, feeling around in a desperate attempt to locate the blast cap among the jumble of wires and screws. Her mind whirled with the weight of the task at hand, knowing that the key to minimizing the damage lay in separating the blast cap from the explosive. It was a grim calculation, but it offered a chance of survival.

Time seemed to slip away rapidly as she worked. Curses slipped quietly from her lips as she grasped at every wire within her reach. The Hollywood depiction of dramatic wire-cutting dilemmas held no bearing in reality-color or appearance meant little in the chaos of a bomb's circuitry. In the real world, the objective was to disrupt the circuitry, irrespective of wire color. She wielded a wire cutter with a sense of urgency, each snip sending a jolt of anxiety coursing through her. Her palms slick with sweat, head throbbing in time with her frantic heartbeat.

The weight of past losses pressed on her, the memories of her father and sister haunting her thoughts. The prospect of more tragedy loomed, particularly her niece's fate. If the bomb were to detonate, taking her and her aunt with it, who would be left to protect the young girl?

Six. . .

With an adrenaline-fueled focus, her determined hands found their way to the batteries connected to the blast cap, and she tore them away with a swift, relieved exhale. Relief flooded through her as the deafening countdown abruptly ceased. A surge of mixed emotions-relief, accomplishment, and lingering worry-engulfed her as the timer ended without an explosion.

Her watch buzzed, snapping her out of the intense moment. The confirmation that the danger had passed left her trembling with a mixture of adrenaline and gratitude.

"Boom! Drop the mic!" She threw her hands in the air, unable to stop the words of victory from her mouth. She had succeeded. Beads of sweat on her brow, her breaths ragged, she had managed to disarm the bomb on her own. Now, she only needed to wait for the bomb squad to arrive and safely dispose of the IED.

"Agent Sterling! Sterling!"

"Hotch, I'm here! I'm okay!" she called back, a surge of relief washing over her upon seeing him, despite the disheveled state he was in and the telltale signs of a scuffle, evident in the blood staining his knuckles.

The arrival of several bomb disposal-suited men alongside her companion marked a turning point, their presence taking command of the situation. The shared feeling of safety settled within Beatrice; they were both unharmed, and that was the ultimate relief. The weight of the potential disaster averted brought an overwhelming sense of gratitude, knowing that everyone involved would return to their families.

"You did a great job, Beatrice," Hotch commended her, a rare acknowledgment of her success, even addressing her by her first name.

Her chest swelled with a mix of pride and gratitude, basking in the acknowledgment from her boss. Her quip about deserving a pizza slipped out in her elation, not even noticing Hotch addressing her by her first name. "I know, and I deserve a whole pizza for that."

"Let's make that three. I haven't eaten dinner yet," Rossi interjected with a smirk, joining the conversation on a lighter note. His brown eyes shone with mischief. "Unless you two have other plans for tonight?"

"None." simultaneously answered the two individuals.

The older profiler walked away with a shrug, leaving a lingering implication in the air with his parting remark, "Ah, denial. The first stage. . ."

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woooh, it has been a while! so sorry for the lack of updates. college life is so hectic and demanding. i will try to be more active from now on. i actually don't know what is happening in this chapter. one time, i wanted to write an episode and the next, i find myself writing a scene that includes a bomb. i like it tho. so yeah, i hope you liked this chapter as much as i did and i love reading your thoughts and comments.