Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brooke was 13 the first time it happened.

She stood up too fast after dinner — just popped off the couch to grab something from the kitchen — and the whole room tilted.

She stopped walking.

Her vision tunnelled slightly, like she was looking through a narrow paper tube, and her ears buzzed with a low, electrical hum. Her heart suddenly slammed into her chest, fast and loud. She gripped the edge of the counter and blinked a few times until it passed.

Weird.

Maybe she hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe she was dehydrated. Maybe she stood too fast.

She didn’t mention it.

When her dad walked in thirty seconds later, drying a plate with a dishtowel, she just reached for the box of cereal like nothing had happened.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at her.

Brooke nodded. “Just hungry again.”

She didn’t really think about it again until a week later.

She’d been up late finishing a science project the night before, and during gym, they were doing fitness testing — sit-ups, push-ups, mile run. The second she stood up after lying flat for the push-up portion, her head spun again.

She swayed.

Ava, her closest friend, caught her arm. “Whoa. Are you okay?”

Brooke waved her off. “Yeah. Just dizzy. I think I got up too fast.”

Ms. Rayburn, the PE teacher, barked, “If you’re going to faint, sit down before you break your nose.”

Brooke forced a laugh, cheeks burning. “I’m fine.”

But it kept happening.

Little things.

Random and scattered.

She’d feel fine one moment, then weirdly flushed and shaky the next. Her legs would feel like Jell-O walking between classes. Her heart would race during homeroom like she’d just run a sprint, even when she hadn’t moved.

She started taking the elevator instead of the stairs. She stopped telling people why.

She was just tired.

That’s what she told herself. What she told her friends. What she told her dad when he raised an eyebrow at how much time she spent lying on the floor after school, backpack dumped beside her, eyes closed like the day had physically knocked her out.

“Everything okay?” he asked one Friday afternoon as he set down a file and crouched beside her.

Brooke opened one eye. “Long day.”

He smiled softly. “Want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

He didn’t press. He rarely did.

The worst part was how impossible it was to describe.

It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. Not in a way that made sense.

It was like… her body forgot how to be her body. Her chest would race when she was still. Her brain would fog over when she tried to focus. Her legs would shake going up the stairs, and sometimes she’d feel like she was floating just slightly outside of herself — not dizzy enough to fall, but not grounded either.

But how do you say that?

How do you explain to adults — to doctors — that something is wrong when you don't even know yourself?

So she didn’t.

She pushed through it.

Shrugged it off.

Drank more water.

Packed salty snacks like she'd seen Emily do during summer cases.

And every time her dad checked in — a concerned look, a soft “You’ve been pretty quiet lately” — she just gave him the same answer.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

The truth was, she didn’t know how to talk about it.
Not yet.
Not when she was already trying so hard to be normal.
Not when she didn’t want to worry him.

So she stayed quiet.

And hoped it would go away.

Chapter Text

Being grounded by Aaron Hotchner wasn’t just punishment.
It was a sentence.

Instead of being at home with her phone and the ability to complain in peace, Brooke was stuck spending every afternoon in the BAU, doing homework in the most overachieving office in the country, surrounded by agents who could read her like a behavioural pattern in a case file.

By day four, she was starting to lose her mind.

She slumped deeper into Garcia’s desk chair, hoodie pulled over her head like a shield. Her algebra book lay open in front of her, but the numbers refused to stay still. Her heart was racing for no reason again — she could feel it in her throat — and her head was buzzing with static.

She blinked a few times. Tried to focus.

Tried to pretend she wasn’t exhausted even though all she’d done that day was sit.

“You good, starshine?” Garcia’s voice broke in softly. “You’ve been staring at page sixty-seven for a suspiciously long time. I’m just checking to make sure your brain hasn’t leaked out.”

Brooke lifted her head slowly. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Just… tired.”

It was automatic now.
The phrase.
The excuse.

Garcia raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, unconvinced but gentle.

“You’ve been saying that all week, hon.”

Brooke shrugged. “Well, it’s been a long week.”

The bullpen was quieter than usual that afternoon. Most of the team was doing paperwork, catching up between cases. Brooke wandered out of Garcia’s office around 4:30, needing to stretch her legs — and maybe get some air.

As she crossed through the bullpen, she felt her legs go unsteady again. That awful, hollow feeling swept through her chest — like all the energy had been sucked out in one breath. She caught the edge of a desk to steady herself.

She looked around — hoping no one saw.

She was wrong.

Emily Prentiss was standing near the whiteboard, tossing a stress ball up and down, deep in thought — until she looked up and froze.

Brooke tried to keep moving like nothing had happened.

Emily raised a brow and followed her to the break room.

“Hey,” Emily said casually, leaning in the doorway. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

Emily gave her a look — that specific Prentiss look that meant try again, kid.

Brooke sighed and grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge. “I don’t know. I’ve been getting these head rushes or whatever. It’s probably nothing.”

Emily frowned. “Is that why you keep leaning on desks when you stand up?”

Brooke blinked. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything,” Emily said gently. “Especially when it’s you.”

Brooke shifted on her feet. “I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want it to sound stupid. It’s probably just being tired. Or low blood sugar. Or… I don’t know.”

Emily stepped farther into the room, her tone softening. “You know, I used to do the same thing. Pretend it was nothing. Because I didn’t want to bother anyone. Or worse — be told it was all in my head.”

Brooke looked up at her, wide-eyed.

“I just… I don’t want Dad to think I’m being dramatic,” she admitted.

“He won’t,” Emily said firmly. “And neither will I.”

Brooke hesitated. “But what if I say something, and no one finds anything wrong?”

“Then we keep asking,” Emily said. “You’re allowed to advocate for yourself, even if it’s uncomfortable.”

They sat down at the break room table. Brooke wrapped her hands around the water bottle, fingers pale and cold.

“I just want to feel normal again,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be the kid who’s always tired and dizzy.”

Emily reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand.

“You’re not just the kid who’s tired. You’re the kid who shows up, even when it’s hard. That takes guts.”

That night, they stayed late — paperwork, coffee, and low conversations echoing around the bullpen.

Hotch eventually emerged from his office and nodded to Brooke. “Time to go.”

She stood slowly, backpack slung over one shoulder. The light-headedness crept back as she walked. She blinked hard, trying to shake it off.

JJ noticed.

Spencer looked up from his files, eyes narrowing as he watched her rub at her temple.

Derek leaned back in his chair and gave Emily a knowing glance.

They were starting to see it too.

As Brooke walked out beside her dad, the sun already dipping low on the horizon, she bit her lip.

“Hey,” she said, voice low. “If I told you something might be wrong… like medically… you wouldn’t freak out, right?”

Hotch looked down at her, his expression immediately shifting to alert, but calm.

“No,” he said. “I’d listen. And then we’d figure it out. Together.”

Brooke nodded slowly.

But she didn’t say more.

Not yet.

Because part of her still hoped it would go away.

Chapter Text

Dinner was spaghetti — one of her favourites — but Brooke barely touched it.

Aaron noticed.

He always did.

She twirled the noodles half-heartedly, pushing them around her plate. She ate maybe three bites before putting her fork down and resting her elbow on the table, chin in hand. Her eyes looked heavy. Not the sleepy kind — the kind that hadn’t felt rested in days.

“You not hungry?” he asked gently.

Brooke shrugged. “Not really.”

He nodded once, subtle, filing it away.

This wasn’t the first time. She’d skipped breakfast three days this week. She picked at lunch the day before and left half her sandwich in the trash. And it wasn’t just food. She’d been quieter. Slower. Less herself.

“I’m gonna call your doctor,” he said quietly.

Brooke looked up, surprised. “Why?”

“Because something’s going on.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He didn’t say it in a harsh way. Just… steady. Calm. Certain. The way he did when he read a case file and already knew the ending.

Brooke looked back down at her plate.

And then, softly, she said it:

“I’ve been feeling weird, okay? My heart races randomly, I’ve almost fainted twice this week, and sometimes I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. Maybe I’m just stressed. Or maybe my body is rebelling.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

She finally looked up again, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought it would go away. Or that it was just me being dramatic.”

“You’re not dramatic,” he said instantly.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

He exhaled slowly. “That’s my job.”

They were in the waiting room the next day by 8:45 a.m.

The Doctor's office was bright and clean, but the sterile walls and muted colours didn’t do much to calm Brooke’s nerves. She sat stiffly in the exam chair, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, legs dangling over the edge.

She hated this part — the not knowing. The feeling of being on display.

Aaron sat beside her, arms folded, the picture of controlled concern.

The nurse took her vitals — heart rate, blood pressure — and raised her brows slightly but said nothing out loud. A few minutes later, she stepped in with a clipboard and a kind smile.

“How are we doing today, Brooke?”

Brooke hesitated. Then quietly: “I feel weird.”

They walked through her symptoms one by one. The racing heart. The dizziness. The brain fog. The way she felt like gravity didn’t always work right.

An ECG was ordered and done quickly.

They waited.

And when the doctor came back, she gave them a smile Brooke had already started to recognize — the kind adults gave when they didn’t have answers.

“Well, the good news is that the ECG looks completely normal,” she said. “Your heart rhythm is steady. No sign of irregularity.”

Brooke swallowed hard. “Then what is it?”

“It could be a number of things,” she said. “Honestly, at your age, symptoms like these can often be tied to puberty or hormones. You’re going through a lot of physical changes, and sometimes the body just reacts a little strongly.”

Aaron shifted beside Brooke, his brow furrowed.

“She’s almost fainted twice this week,” he said. “That’s not just hormones.”

“I understand,” she said gently. “But given how common these complaints are in adolescent girls, I wouldn’t be too concerned yet. I’d recommend staying hydrated, eating consistently, and trying to reduce any stress where possible.”

Brooke stared at the floor.

It felt like the weight in her chest hadn’t budged.

Maybe her body wasn’t broken.

But then why did it feel like it was?

In the car ride home, neither of them spoke at first.

Brooke finally said, “So it’s nothing, I guess.”

Aaron shook his head. “No. It’s something. We just haven’t found the name for it yet.”

She blinked quickly, holding back frustrated tears.

“I’m not making it up,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “And we’re not giving up.”

Later that night, when the house was quiet, Brooke curled up on the couch under a blanket, watching reruns with Emily and Garcia who had dropped by for moral support.

Emily passed her a bowl of popcorn. “So, Doctor said it’s hormones?”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Apparently I’m just a moody adolescent with a caffeine habit and a flair for the dramatic.”

Emily leaned over and bumped her shoulder. “For what it’s worth? I’ve been told the same thing. And they were wrong.”

Brooke swallowed hard.

“What if we never figure it out?”

Emily gave her a long look. “Then we keep looking. We don’t quit just because the first person couldn’t see it. That’s not who we are.”

And Brooke, for the first time all day, smiled — just a little.

Because if there was anyone who’d never let her fall through the cracks, it was this team.

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a normal day.

Boring, even. Brooke had finished her homework early, and with her dad buried in case files, she’d set up camp on the floor of his office with a granola bar, her hoodie, and a book she wasn’t really reading.

She felt off — more than usual.

Her head ached, her legs felt heavy, and her heart had that uncomfortable flutter again, like it was bouncing around in her chest without rhythm. She stood to grab her water bottle from the desk, but the second she rose, the floor didn’t feel steady.

The edges of her vision went dark.
Her ears filled with a buzzing hum.

Then, nothing.

The next thing she heard was her dad’s voice , low and panicked.

“Brooke—hey—Brooke, look at me. Can you hear me?”

She blinked awake slowly. She was on the floor, her back against his arm, someone else’s coat wadded beneath her head. JJ and Reid hovered nearby. Someone had called Garcia, and she could hear her heels approaching in rapid-fire clicks.

“What the hell happened?” Garcia’s voice cracked. “Is she—?”

“She fainted,” Aaron said. His voice was calm, but Brooke could hear the tremor in it.

Her mouth was dry. She could barely lift her arm.

Urgent Care was a blur of bright lights, cold rooms, and endless questions.

They ran another ECG. Took her blood pressure — sitting, then standing. Drew blood. Asked about food. Sleep. Stress.

She told them everything. Or tried to.

The ER doctor, young and efficient, finally stepped in after two hours.

“Your vitals are stable now, and nothing on the ECG suggests a cardiac issue,” he said, flipping through her chart. “This looks like a stress-related syncope episode.”

Brooke blinked at him. “A what?”

“You fainted due to stress. Very common in adolescents — especially girls. Combine fatigue with anxiety or not eating enough, and the body shuts down for a moment.”

“I wasn’t anxious,” she said sharply.

“It doesn’t always feel like panic,” the doctor replied. “Sometimes it’s subconscious. You’ve had a lot going on lately, right? School, social pressure, your dad’s work—”

“I’m not anxious,” she repeated, louder now. “And I ate today.”

Aaron stood behind her, arms folded, jaw tense.

“Then why does her heart race randomly?” he asked. “Why has she nearly fainted twice before this week?”

The doctor gave him a bland smile. “Teenage nervous systems can be sensitive. I understand it’s concerning, but nothing here suggests a larger issue. Try to reduce her stress and monitor symptoms.”

That was it.

Discharged.

No answers. Again.

The car ride home was silent. Brooke stared out the window, her arms crossed tightly, nausea curling behind her ribs.

Her dad glanced at her once.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t.

And she didn’t want to pretend anymore.

It happened after dinner.

The snap.

She was upstairs in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, when her dad knocked gently and stepped inside.

“I want to check in before I send a message to your school,” he said. “We should probably give them a heads-up that you might need to take things slow tomorrow—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off.

He paused. “Brooke—”

“Don’t call the school. Don’t tell them anything. Don’t act like everything’s fine because it’s not. ”

Her voice cracked.

Aaron stepped in slowly, not yet sitting. “I’m not pretending everything’s fine.”

“No one’s listening to me!” she snapped, standing now, her fists clenched at her sides. “I fainted! In your office! I’ve been dizzy for weeks. My heart races for no reason, and now I’m being told I’m just some stressed-out teenage girl who needs a nap!”

Her face flushed red. Hot tears spilled over without warning.

“I know my body,” she said, her voice breaking completely. “I know something’s wrong. And every time I say it, I get told it’s hormones, or anxiety, or school stress, and I’m—I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of me. ”

Aaron stepped forward and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

“I believe you,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “Then why do I feel like I’m going crazy?”

He pulled her into a hug — one of those rare ones, the tight kind he usually reserved for when cases got personal.

“Because no one’s listening the way they should. But I am. And I will. We’re not done.”

Brooke buried her face into his chest and finally let herself cry — really cry — for the first time since this started.

Because it wasn’t just fear anymore.

It was exhaustion. Frustration. Helplessness.
And underneath it all — a flicker of hope that maybe her dad would be the one who finally helped her get answers.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Brooke woke up feeling like her body had been filled with wet sand.

Heavy. Slow. Off.

Her head pounded the second she sat up. Her heart tapped out a rapid rhythm in her chest — too fast, like it had forgotten how to pace itself.

But she got dressed anyway.

She brushed her hair, swiped on some mascara, and stuffed two granola bars into her backpack.

Because acting normal was easier than explaining that she didn’t feel normal at all.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and toast. Her dad stood by the counter, suit jacket slung over the chair, tie not yet knotted.

“You’re up early,” he said, surprised.

“I figured I’d go to school,” Brooke said, grabbing a water bottle. “No point staying home.”

He studied her face for a second too long.

“You sure?”

She forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look convinced — but he didn’t argue either. And Brooke didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse.

The school day dragged.

By second period, her legs felt like cement. Her hands were cold and shaky. She walked slower in the hallways and tried to avoid standing too long, pretending to rummage through her bag anytime she needed to stop.

Lunchtime didn’t help. Her appetite still hadn’t come back, and the cafeteria felt hot and overwhelming. She picked at a slice of pizza and told Jasmine she was just feeling “off.”

“You okay?” Jasmine asked, sipping her soda. “You’ve been quiet.”

Brooke shrugged. “Didn’t sleep great.”

She wanted to talk about it. She really did.

But how do you explain something no one can see?

Back at the BAU after school — still grounded, still stuck there until her dad finished work — Brooke curled up on the break room couch, hoodie pulled low over her eyes.

She must’ve drifted off, because the next thing she knew, Spencer was kneeling beside her, one hand on her shoulder.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Sorry to wake you. Your dad’s almost done.”

Brooke sat up, blinking blearily. The moment she moved, the familiar dizziness surged again — a wave of light-headedness that made her grip the couch.

“You okay?” Spencer asked.

She nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just stood too fast. Happens.”

Spencer frowned but didn’t push.

Out in the bullpen, Aaron wrapped up a conversation with JJ before grabbing his coat.

“Ready?” he asked Brooke.

She stood, steadier now, and followed him to the elevator.

In the car, she stared out the window in silence.

“I’m glad you went to school today,” Aaron said, glancing over. “You seemed more like yourself.”

Brooke blinked.

More like herself?

She didn’t even know what that meant anymore.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Totally.”

That night, Brooke showered early and curled up in bed with her journal, writing the same things she’d written for weeks:

dizzy again
no appetite
fast heart — again
slept through lunch — didn’t mean to
can’t tell if I’m sick or broken

Down the hall, her dad was still awake — phone in one hand, legal pad in the other, reviewing old reports and notes from work.

He hadn’t Googled her symptoms.
Hadn’t called a specialist.
Hadn’t questioned the urgent care diagnosis.

Not yet.

Because he still wanted to believe the doctors were right.

That this was just a phase.

A bump.

Something she’d grow out of.

And Brooke?

She wanted that too.

But she was starting to realize that wishing wasn’t going to fix it.

Chapter Text

Brooke had practiced her presentation ten times the night before.
She knew the order of her slides. She knew her intro. She even had a joke built into slide three that usually got a laugh.

It should have been easy.

But by the time second period rolled around and Ms. Peters called her up to the front of the room, Brooke’s hands were already shaking.

She stood slowly, gripping the edge of her desk for balance.

No big deal.
She was just tired. That’s what she kept telling herself.

She carried her flash drive up to the computer, plugged it in, and waited while the projector flickered to life.

“Take your time,” Ms. Peters said gently.

Brooke gave her a tight nod and turned to face the class.

Twenty-three pairs of eyes stared back at her.

She cleared her throat.

“So… uh, hi,” she began, already aware of how fast her heart was pounding. “My topic is the ethics of artificial intelligence, and, um, I chose this because—”

Her vision started closing in.

Not all at once — just at the edges, like black ink slowly seeping into the corners of her sight. Her legs felt weirdly unstable. Her chest was tight, and not from nerves. This wasn’t panic. This wasn’t stage fright.

It was something else. Something deeper. More physical.

She took a step forward and felt her knees buckle slightly.

A few kids shifted in their seats.

Brooke tried to keep going.

“…because I think that if we’re going to create intelligent machines, then—uh—we have to be aware of how… how we…”

The words blurred.

She blinked hard and lost her place completely.

Something in the room shifted — not the air, but the attention. She could feel it. Everyone was watching her stumble through sentences, trying to finish a thought while her voice kept catching, her posture sagging.

Her vision tilted.

The screen behind her was swimming.

She gripped the podium, hand trembling now.

“…sorry, I—I just…”

And then she stopped.

Right in the middle of her sentence.

She turned slightly, stepped away from the front of the room, and sat down — hard — in the teacher’s empty chair by the whiteboard, as fast and quietly as she could.

Ms. Peters stood immediately. “Brooke? Are you okay?”

“I just need a minute,” Brooke mumbled.

A few students laughed awkwardly. Ava’s brow furrowed. Jasmine mouthed are you okay? from across the aisle.

“I’m fine,” Brooke lied, cheeks flaming. “I just got dizzy. I’ll finish it in a second.”

But she didn’t stand back up.

She couldn’t.

Her legs felt too unsteady, her hands were clammy, and her heart still pounded like she’d just run laps around the gym.

Ms. Peters didn’t press her to continue.

Instead, she quietly moved to start the next presentation and let Brooke sit there, red-faced and humiliated, pretending not to hear the whispers behind her.

She made it through the rest of the day by sheer force of will.

By the time she was in her dad’s office that evening, sitting on the little couch with her knees hugged to her chest, she didn’t even pretend to do homework.

Aaron looked over from his desk and finally asked, “Rough day?”

Brooke didn’t answer.

He set his pen down.

“You want to talk about it?”

She shrugged. “Not really.”

He nodded, giving her space. “Okay.”

But ten minutes later, she spoke up anyway — her voice small, but edged with frustration.

“I had a presentation in English.”

He glanced up.

“Did it go okay?”

“I had to sit down halfway through,” she said quietly. “I thought I was gonna pass out in front of everyone.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you?”

“No. But I looked like an idiot.”

“What happened?”

Brooke rubbed her face with her hands. “Same thing. Dizzy, off-balance, heart pounding. Like I couldn’t stay upright.”

He leaned back slowly in his chair. “Do you think it was anxiety?”

She shot him a glare. “No. I wasn’t nervous. ”

Aaron exhaled, not arguing — but not agreeing either.

“Brooke,” he said carefully, “we went to the doctor. They ran tests. They said everything came back normal.”

“I know what they said,” Brooke snapped. “But I’m telling you — something’s wrong. It’s only getting worse, not better.”

“You’ve had a hard couple of weeks,” he said gently. “Maybe things are just catching up with you.”

Brooke stood up, chest tight with emotion. “You sound exactly like the doctor.”

“I’m not dismissing you.”

“You are.”

“Brooke—”

“No one’s taking this seriously,” she said, her voice cracking. “Everyone keeps telling me it’s stress or hormones or ‘just growing up,’ but I know my body. And this isn’t normal. Something Isn't right. I’m tired of pretending it is.”

There was a long silence.

Brooke wiped her eyes quickly. She hated crying in front of him — hated how raw this made her feel.

“I’m not going back to another doctor just to be told I’m dramatic,” she said flatly. “I’m done.”

Aaron looked at her for a long time. And then, softly, “Okay.”

She froze. “Okay?”

He nodded. “If you need a break from it, that’s fine. I’ll respect that.”

She didn’t expect him to agree so easily.

But instead of relief, all she felt was empty.

Because the truth was, she didn’t want to give up — not really. She just didn’t want to keep being dismissed.

That night, Brooke curled into a corner of the BAU break room couch, hoodie pulled over her head again. She didn’t talk. Didn’t eat. Just sat.

Emily found her there.

She sat down beside her without asking.

“I heard about the presentation.”

Brooke didn’t move.

“Jasmine texted Garcia. Said you looked like you were about to pass out.”

Brooke groaned. “Of course she did.”

Emily handed her a cup of tea. “She’s worried. We all are.”

Brooke stared into the tea.

Emily waited.

And then, quietly: “I’m so sick of this.”

“I know,” Emily said.

“No you don’t,” Brooke muttered. “You all think it’s stress.”

“I don’t.”

That made Brooke glance over.

Emily’s expression was serious. “I think something’s going on. I’ve been watching you. You’re not imagining this.”

Brooke’s throat tightened.

“But your dad— y our dad is scared,” Emily said gently. “He wants to believe the doctors because it’s easier than believing they’re wrong. He doesn’t want to see you hurting, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.”

Brooke sniffed. “I don’t either.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Emily said. “You’re thirteen. You’re supposed to have adults fighting for you. And I promise, some of us still are.”

That broke something in Brooke’s chest.

She leaned against Emily without a word, letting herself breathe for the first time all day.

She didn’t go to school the next day.

She didn’t ask for permission. Just didn’t get up.

Aaron called in for her. Said she needed rest. Said it wasn’t a big deal.

He told himself that over and over.

Chapter Text

Emily had been watching Brooke quietly for weeks.

It wasn’t just the dizzy spells anymore — it was the subtle things. The way Brooke always chose the seat closest to the wall. The way she rubbed her chest when she thought no one was looking. How her voice faltered when she stood too fast, or how her hands gripped the table tighter than they should when she laughed.

And Aaron hadn’t truly seen it.

Or maybe he had — and just didn’t want to.

She waited until the bullpen was nearly empty. The clock on the wall read 6:17 p.m. as Emily made her way up the stairs to Hotch’s office, heels echoing with purpose. She knocked twice before stepping in and closing the door behind her.

Aaron glanced up from the stack of files. “Hey. Something wrong?”

Emily crossed her arms. “It’s about Brooke.”

His expression shifted, brows creasing. “What about her?”

“She’s not okay.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I know she’s been tired. School’s been overwhelming—”

“It’s more than that, Hotch,” she interrupted. “You’ve seen it too. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

Aaron’s posture straightened, defensive. “Her doctor said it’s stress. Hormonal changes. Teenager stuff. She’s had all the standard labs.”

Emily stepped closer, voice steady. “No, Aaron. This is not just teenage fatigue. She nearly fainted again during her presentation. Her lips were pale. She couldn't even finish her notes.”

“She was nervous.”

“She’s been dizzy for weeks. She doesn’t eat. She’s sleeping more than ever, and it’s clearly not helping. You think I don’t notice the way she leans on the wall when she walks into the BAU after school?”

Aaron looked away. “It’s… it’s been a rough couple months. Grief, school stress, maybe even depression.”

“No,” Emily said firmly. “It’s not just in her head. You know that feeling when your gut says something’s off. You’re ignoring yours.”

That hit a nerve.

“She’s my daughter,” Aaron said, voice low. “Don’t you think I know when something’s wrong?”

“Then act like it ,” Emily snapped, then softened. “Because right now, she feels like no one is listening. And you—her own father—you’re reinforcing that.”

He clenched his jaw. “We’re having dinner at Dave’s tonight. Come with us.”

Emily blinked. “Why?”

“Because maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m missing something,” he admitted. “Just… come.”

She studied him for a beat. Then nodded.

Dinner at Rossi’s always had a familiar warmth to it — garlic, red wine, candlelight, laughter. The table was set with heavy plates and cloth napkins, Italian-style. Brooke arrived slouched under the weight of her hoodie, hair up in a messy bun, earbuds in, scrolling half heartedly through her phone.

Emily walked in behind her and noted the dark circles under her eyes.

“Hey, kid,” Dave greeted, ruffling her hair.

Brooke gave him a weak grin. “Smells like garlic and guilt in here.”

“You love guilt,” Dave teased. “It means I care.”

They all took their seats, and the conversation started easily — anecdotes about Reid’s latest book club attempt, Garcia’s new obsession with tarot cards, and Morgan’s one failed attempt to cook risotto.

Brooke poked at her food more than she ate it, which Emily noticed immediately. Aaron did too, but said nothing.

“Everything okay?” Dave asked gently.

“Yeah. Just not super hungry.”

“You’ve said that all week,” Aaron said, trying not to sound sharp.

Brooke gave him a look. “Maybe I’m just not.”

Emily felt the tension tighten across the table.

Still, Brooke smiled when Dave pulled out an old story about a BAU case involving a stolen Ferrari and a very enthusiastic poodle. Laughter echoed around the table. It was a glimpse — a flash of the old Brooke.

And then it changed.

She reached for her glass of water.

Her hand missed.

The glass tipped off the edge of the table and shattered on the floor. The room fell into silence.

Brooke stared down, confused. Her eyes darted to her fingers, which trembled slightly.

“Brooke?” Aaron asked, his tone immediately sharper.

“I’m… okay,” she whispered. But the words didn’t sound right.

She stood up quickly — too quickly.

And her knees buckled.

Emily surged forward, catching her elbow. Aaron was already by her side.

Brooke swayed, clearly struggling to focus. Her face had gone ghostly pale, a fine sheen of sweat appearing across her forehead.

“I need to—” she started, but didn’t finish.

“Okay, sit down,” Aaron said firmly, guiding her back to the chair. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”

Dave returned with a wet cloth, handing it to Emily, who pressed it gently against Brooke’s neck.

“Can you tell me what’s happening?” Emily asked softly.

Brooke shook her head. “Everything’s… spinning. My legs feel like they’re not mine. My chest’s tight. I… I feel like I’m not really here.”

Aaron’s eyes widened slightly.

Emily didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Later, Brooke lay curled up on Rossi’s couch, the blanket tucked around her shoulders. Her breathing had steadied. Her face was still pale, but some colour had returned.

Aaron stood in the doorway, watching her. Emily approached silently, wine glass forgotten on the table.

“She didn’t even stand up that fast,” she said. “That wasn’t stress.”

“I know,” Aaron murmured.

“I’ve been pushing you because I care about her,” Emily added gently. “Because she’s not just your daughter, Hotch. She’s our kid.”

He didn’t look at her. Just kept watching Brooke. “I wanted to believe the doctors. That it wasn’t serious. That she’d grow out of it.”

“I think she needs you to believe her now,” Emily said.

“I do,” he whispered. “Now I do.”

Chapter Text

The BAU was quiet when Aaron stepped into Reid’s office with two coffee cups in hand.

Reid was halfway through writing something on his whiteboard — equations mixed with what looked like a heart rhythm pattern.

“You’re mixing cardiology with chaos theory again,” Aaron said, trying for lightness.

Spencer turned and blinked. “Oh. Well, heart rates are chaotic systems. In POTS patients, especially, the tilt-table tests—”

Aaron cut him off gently. “Actually… I came to talk about that. About… POTS. And Brooke.”

Spencer’s posture straightened.

Aaron handed him a coffee.

“She had another episode,” Aaron said, quieter now. “At Rossi’s. Almost fainted again. Her legs gave out. Sweating, shaking, pale. It was bad.”

Reid’s lips pressed into a tight line. “And the doctor said it was just stress?”

“Stress. Hormones. The usual.”

Spencer sat. “Have you considered a cardiac referral?”

“I didn’t. Not seriously. But now…” Aaron exhaled. “Emily’s been on me about it. She’s noticed things I didn’t want to admit.”

Spencer nodded slowly. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but Brooke’s symptoms — racing heart, dizziness, near-fainting, especially on standing — they line up with forms of dysautonomia. POTS is the most common for someone her age. Especially girls. It’s often misdiagnosed.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “Misdiagnosed as what?”

“Anxiety. Hormonal changes. Sometimes even eating disorders, if the patient’s small or underweight. But it’s a real condition. The autonomic nervous system isn’t regulating blood flow the way it should.”

Aaron went still.

That hit a nerve.

“She’s not making this up,” he said. “I’ve seen it now. I believe her.”

Reid nodded. “That’s the first step. The second is getting her on the right path. The problem is, there are very few specialists who understand POTS, let alone treat it effectively.”

“So what do I do?”

“Get her on a waitlist to see a paediatric cardiologist. One that works with dysautonomia patients, if you can find one nearby. I’ll send you a few names. In the meantime, document everything. Her pulse, her blood pressure, time of day, if symptoms worsen after standing or eating. Keep a log.”

Aaron pulled out his phone. “Start the list. I’ll make the calls today.”

But he didn’t even make it to the second one.

His phone rang.

“Roosevelt Middle School” lit up the screen.

His chest tightened. “Hotchner.”

The voice on the other end was the school nurse. “Mr. Hotchner? Brooke came in a few minutes ago — she’s very pale and trembling. We had her lie down, and I took her pulse. It was elevated even though she’s been lying still. She said she felt like she might faint. We think you should come get her.”

“I’m on my way,” Aaron said, already grabbing his coat.

Reid looked up from the whiteboard.

Aaron didn’t say a word — he just nodded once, the look in his eyes enough to say it all.

The nurse’s office smelled like antiseptic and bad lavender.

Brooke was lying on a narrow cot, hoodie zipped up to her chin, a cold compress on her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open when she heard the door.

“Dad.”

Her voice was barely audible.

Aaron crouched beside her. “I’m here.”

She looked awful. Pale, lips colourless, strands of hair plastered to her temple with sweat. Her hands were trembling.

“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered. “I just stood up too fast in gym and then everything went… weird.”

“I know.” He smoothed the blanket across her legs.

The nurse handed him a clipboard with vitals she’d taken — pulse still high, blood pressure slightly low. “She’s stable, but something’s not right. This is the second time she’s been in here this month.”

Aaron gave her a nod, all professionalism. “Thank you.”

But inside, his stomach was twisting.

Because this wasn’t just another scare.

This was the third collapse in two weeks.

And he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Brooke sat in the passenger seat on the drive home, head leaned against the window. She looked drained, like even staying upright was too much.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she mumbled.

“I know.”

“I wasn’t doing anything risky. I didn’t skip breakfast. I didn’t run. I just… stood up.”

Aaron didn’t speak for a moment. Then:

“I talked to Reid today.”

That got her attention.

“Why?”

“Because you’re not getting better. And I trust his brain more than I trust the doctors who told you this was stress.”

She turned to face him, eyes wide.

“I believe you, Brooke.”

He said it quietly, but firmly.

And just like that — her shoulders dropped. Like she’d been carrying the weight of disbelief so long it had warped her spine.

“Reid thinks it might be something called POTS,” Aaron continued. “We’re not diagnosing anything ourselves. But we’re going to get you on a waitlist to see someone who knows what they’re doing. A cardiologist who specializes in this.”

Brooke didn’t cry.

She just whispered, “Okay.”

Because it was the first time someone wasn’t telling her to push through it.

Back home, she collapsed onto the couch with a blanket and one of Dave’s old hoodies. She barely moved as Garcia came by with comfort food and Emily arrived with a blood pressure cuff Reid had dropped off.

“From here on out,” Emily said gently, “we’re tracking it. Every day. Sitting, standing, after meals. Anything that feels weird — we write it down.”

Brooke just nodded.

Garcia set a mug of tea beside her. “You are officially part of the BAU’s top-priority case.”

Brooke smiled faintly. “You gonna interrogate my heartbeat?”

“I already did. It’s giving me lies and sass.”

Emily chuckled. “Must be genetic.”

Aaron stood in the doorway, watching it all — his daughter finally surrounded by people who saw her. Believed her. Treated her like she wasn’t imagining it.

And for the first time in months, the fear in his chest gave way to something else.

Hope.

Chapter Text

The days after the nurse’s office incident passed slowly.

Brooke stayed home from school, not because she was physically incapable — though she mostly was — but because the emotional weight had grown unbearable.

Her body no longer felt like her own.

Everything she did, every step she took, was shadowed by a fear she couldn’t shake.

What if she fainted in class?
What if no one listened again?
What if she never figured out what was happening to her?

She sat curled up on the living room couch most afternoons, her blood pressure monitor and symptom log sitting untouched on the coffee table. She hated looking at them. Hated what they symbolized.

Her body — the same one that used to cartwheel down grassy hills, run down stairs two at a time, and stay up late laughing with friends — was betraying her. Slowly. Quietly.

And no one could fix it yet.

Not even her dad.

Especially not her dad.

It was late Friday when Dave stopped by.

Aaron had asked him to — not explicitly, but in the way a tired father does when he’s out of ideas.

“Just talk to her,” Aaron had said that morning. “She listens to you.”

So Dave showed up with Italian takeout and a bottle of Pellegrino, no pressure, no expectations. Brooke was on the back porch, hoodie up, legs pulled into her chest as she sat on the swinging bench.

He eased the screen door open. “Mind some company?”

Brooke shrugged. “Sure.”

He sat beside her, the porch creaking faintly beneath them. Fireflies blinked in the bushes. The air was thick with midsummer humidity.

“Your dad says you’ve had a rough week.”

Brooke gave a noncommittal grunt.

Dave let the silence hang.

Eventually, she whispered, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

He looked over.

“I used to be the kid who ran everywhere,” she said, voice small. “The one who laughed too loud and talked too much. Now I’m the girl who has to sit down halfway through class because her body forgets how to function.”

Dave didn’t interrupt.

She swallowed hard. “What if this is permanent? What if I never get better?”

“Then you’ll find a new way forward,” Dave said gently. “A different way. But still yours.”

Brooke shook her head, frustrated. “Everyone keeps saying I’m strong, or brave, or resilient. But I don’t feel that way. I feel like a mess. I feel like I’m disappearing.”

She looked up at him, tears in her eyes now.

She bit her lip, then blurted, “I just wish there was something I could take that would make it all stop. Even for a little while.”

She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

And Dave didn’t react right away.

But his eyes — God, his eyes changed. He wasn’t just concerned now.

He was terrified .

She saw it.

“Uncle Dave—”

“Don’t brush that off,” he said, voice low. “Don’t make a joke about it. Because I’ve heard that sentence before, and not just from you.”

Brooke’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Dave looked out at the backyard, quiet for a long time.

Then he said, “Do you remember when you were ten? Just after Emily left… and right after Haley’s anniversary?”

Brooke nodded slowly. “That was a bad year.”

“Worse than most,” Dave agreed. “One day, your dad came into my office and he looked scared. Said he found you sitting in the bathroom with an orange bottle in your hand.”

Brooke stared. “What?”

“His old bottle of pain medication,” Dave said quietly. “He’d had it left over from an injury. It had been untouched for years. But he found you gripping it in your hands.”

Brooke went still.

“You didn’t take it,” Dave added quickly. “You stood there with it in your hand. You were crying. You didn’t know what you were doing — you were a kid trying to stop the kind of pain no kid should have to carry.”

She swallowed. “He never said anything.”

“He didn’t want to scare you,” Dave said. “He sat with you for hours and even took you to the hospital just to make sure you were okay.” Brooke looked away.

Dave reached out and covered her hand with his. “So when I hear you say things like that now? It doesn’t just worry me, sweetheart. It scares me.”

Brooke’s throat tightened. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Dave said softly. “But I also know how easy it is to feel like you’re stuck in a body you don’t recognize, and to want any way out. Even if it’s just for a minute.”

Tears stung her eyes, and this time she didn’t hide them.

“I just want to feel normal again,” she whispered. “I want to feel like myself.”

Dave pulled her gently against his side. “You are still you. Even if your legs shake. Even if you have to sit down during gym. Even if you never run another mile again in your life.”

Brooke laughed bitterly into his shoulder. “Good, because I hated running anyway.”

Dave smiled into her hair. “There’s the Brooke I know.”

They stayed that way until the sun dipped behind the trees, and the tea went cold.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt like maybe she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The rain started before sunrise — a slow, persistent drizzle that settled into the streets of Quantico like it belonged there.

David Rossi sat in his parked car outside the BAU that morning longer than usual, engine off, hand on the keys, the weight of last night’s conversation with Brooke pressing against his ribs.

He hadn’t been able to sleep.

Not after hearing the hollow sound in her voice when she said she just wanted something to make it all stop.

Not after seeing the way her eyes had gone dull — not like she was hurting, but like she was tired of even feeling anything at all.

It was a kind of emptiness he recognized far too well.

And the person who needed to know about it — really know — was the man who had carried Brooke through every storm… and was now blindly walking through one she couldn’t name.

Rossi got out, locked the car, and climbed the stairs to Aaron’s office.

He didn’t knock.

Hotch looked up in surprise when the door opened. “You’re early.”

“So are you,” Dave replied, closing the door behind him.

The silence stretched.

Aaron tilted his head. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Rossi said flatly. “It’s not.”

Aaron immediately set his coffee down. “What’s wrong?”

“It's about the conversation I had with Brooke last night. 

“She told me she doesn’t know who she is anymore.” That she feels broken. And then she said—” His voice faltered. “She said she wished there was something she could take to make it all stop.”

Aaron’s face went still.

Dead still.

The silence in the room thickened.

“She didn’t mean it like that,” Rossi said softly. “Not explicitly. But you and I both know what that kind of statement sounds like when it’s been carried too long.”

Aaron sat back in his chair, hands steepled.

“She’s not just physically struggling, Aaron. She’s spiralling emotionally, and she’s hiding it.”

“I didn’t see it,” Aaron said hollowly.

“I know.”

“I’ve been focused on the symptoms. The heart rate, the fainting, the food. I thought if I tracked it all, if I just stayed ahead of it, then maybe…”

Rossi waited.

Aaron exhaled, voice barely audible. “I didn’t notice how tired she’s been of fighting. ”

Dave nodded. “You saw the storm. You didn’t see the ship cracking.”

“I missed it again,” Aaron said quietly. “She’s slipping and I missed it again. ”

Rossi walked toward him, voice firm. “You didn’t miss it. You just weren’t ready to see it. But you are now. That matters.”

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You don’t have to fix it. You just have to stay in it. With her. Every step.”

Aaron didn’t reply — but his eyes glistened.

And Dave knew he’d gotten through.

Emily noticed it the next afternoon, when Brooke stopped by the BAU after school. She barely said hello before heading to the break room, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie drawn up around her face.

Something about her movements had changed. Slower. Not just physically — emotionally.

She wasn’t present anymore. She wasn’t there .

Emily followed her in quietly.

Brooke sat on the couch, took a sip of juice Garcia had left for her, then curled her knees into her chest and stared out the window.

“Hey,” Emily said softly, sitting beside her. “Rough day?”

Brooke shrugged. “It’s just a day.”

That wasn’t Brooke. That wasn’t even Brooke on a bad day.

Emily studied her for a long moment.

Brooke’s lower lip trembled.

“I’m tired of pretending I’m not angry,” she whispered. “Angry that this is my life. Angry that my friends don’t get it. Angry that I’m scared to walk through the hall without fainting. I hate this.”

Emily didn’t say anything. She just reached out and put a hand on Brooke’s back.

“I feel like I’m disappearing,” Brooke said. “Like the world’s moving forward and I’m just stuck here… trying to convince people I’m not exaggerating.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Emily said.

“I know.” Brooke closed her eyes. “But I’m starting to wonder if I even remember who I was before this. And what if I never get that girl back?”

Emily’s heart broke.

“Then we find a new version of her,” she said. “One who’s just as strong. Just as brilliant. And maybe even more powerful because she’s had to fight for every breath.”

Brooke didn’t reply.

But she didn’t pull away either.

Meanwhile, across the building, Spencer Reid sat in front of two open laptops and a spiral notebook filled with contact names, hospital departments, and network affiliations.

He’d been working on it for days.

Brooke’s name had been on a waitlist for a paediatric cardiologist for two months now. That wait was standard. But standard wasn’t acceptable anymore.

He called in favours.

He emailed former colleagues.

He even called a contact in Boston who owed him after he’d helped untangle a complicated research ethics case last year.

Nothing.

Until now.

His phone buzzed — a reply.

He clicked it open and his eyes scanned quickly.

Dr. Amanda Cole. Paediatric Dysautonomia Specialist. Georgetown.

A cancellation had opened up. It was a Friday appointment. Two weeks out.

Reid stood and walked fast to Aaron’s office, where Aaron was still at his desk, fingers pressed to his temple, lost in a world of guilt.

“I found her a slot,” Spencer said.

Aaron blinked up at him. “What?”

“Cardiology. Georgetown. Dr. Cole. She’s one of the best. Friday after next. They had a cancellation — I pushed a little. Used some… leverage.”

Aaron stared at him. “You got her in.”

Spencer nodded. “Two weeks.”

Aaron swallowed hard.

It wasn’t a cure.

But it was hope.

That night, Aaron sat on Brooke’s bed after she’d finally fallen asleep. She looked younger in sleep — like she hadn’t spent months dragging herself through days she had no energy for. Her journal was on her nightstand, the page still open.

Tuesday: Heart rate spiked after walking up stairs.

Dizzy in chem class.

Ate lunch but couldn’t finish.

Everything feels heavier today.

He closed the book gently and exhaled.

Then he said, into the quiet:

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you sooner.”

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, catching dust in the air like falling snow. It was quiet — unusually so — and Aaron found himself staring at the coffee brewing, his hands braced on the counter, trying to figure out how to tell his daughter there might finally be hope.

She was still asleep upstairs. For once, she hadn’t dragged herself to the kitchen like she usually did, wrapped in Dave’s oversized hoodie, asking for tea and pretending she wasn’t exhausted.

Aaron didn’t mind the silence. It gave him time to think.

Two weeks.

Dr. Amanda Cole. Paediatric cardiology. Georgetown. A cancellation had come through, and Reid had pulled every string he could to lock it in.

It wasn’t a miracle. But it was a start.

And after everything—Brooke’s collapse at Rossi’s, the conversation Dave had shared with him, the bruises under her eyes he could no longer ignore—it was the closest thing to solid ground they’d had in months.

He poured two mugs of tea and carried them upstairs.

Her bedroom door was open, the sunlight spilling across a floor littered with books, a hoodie half-folded on her desk chair, and a scattered set of notecards for a science project she hadn’t touched in a week.

Brooke was still in bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, blinking slowly at the ceiling.

“Morning,” Aaron said gently.

She turned her head toward him. “Is it?”

“I brought you tea.”

She tried to sit up but moved too quickly, and he immediately noticed the wince. The colour had drained from her face before she even pushed the blanket down.

He placed the mug on her nightstand and crouched beside the bed. “Take it slow.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, but her voice was raspy.

Aaron watched her. She looked smaller today — like the weight of everything had finally started to collapse in on itself.

“I wanted to tell you something,” he said. “Reid made a few calls.”

She glanced over, disinterested.

“We got an appointment. A real one. Paediatric cardiologist. Georgetown.”

That got her attention.

Her eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

“Two weeks from Friday,” Aaron said, watching her closely. “They had a cancellation. Reid pulled strings.”

Brooke sat up straighter, her hands gripping the edge of the blanket. “That’s… they actually agreed to see me?”

“They did.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, a real smile crossed her face. It was tired, but it was genuine.

Aaron’s throat tightened.

“Is it weird that I feel… relieved?” she asked quietly. “Like maybe this means I’m not crazy?”

“You were never crazy,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t believe me.”

“I wanted to,” Aaron admitted. “I just didn’t know what to do. And I thought maybe—maybe if I waited long enough, it would pass.”

Her eyes softened. “It didn’t.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. Not yet. But it would be.

That afternoon passed quietly. Brooke stayed upstairs resting, scrolling through videos and occasionally texting Ava and Jasmine. Her heart felt like it had settled for the first time in weeks. There was something ahead. Something other than dread.

Aaron worked from home, laptop open on the dining table, half-listening for sounds from upstairs.

At around 3:45 p.m., he glanced at the time and realized he hadn’t heard her move in over an hour.

He stood and walked to the base of the stairs. “Brooke?” he called.

No answer.

“Everything okay?”

Still nothing.

He took the stairs two at a time.

Her bedroom door was half-closed now, as if pushed shut by a breeze. The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

“Brooke?” he said again, louder.

He pushed the door open.

She was on the floor.

Flat on her back. Eyes closed. Limbs limp.

Her phone was next to her, face down on the carpet.

Aaron’s heart stopped.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands already reaching for her wrist. “Brooke! Hey, hey—sweetheart, look at me.”

No response.

“Brooke—!”

Her skin was clammy. Her pulse — it was there, but faint. Weak. Her breathing shallow.

Aaron didn’t waste another second.

He grabbed his phone and dialled 911, fingers trembling.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My daughter collapsed. She’s unresponsive. Pulse is weak. She has a history of fainting. I think this is—this is something more.”

He rattled off the address with the precision of someone who’d done it too many times for other people. But this time it was his kid.

“Is she breathing?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yes, but shallow.”

“We’re dispatching EMS now. Stay on the line.”

Aaron placed the phone on speaker, set it on the floor, and knelt beside Brooke again. He brushed the hair away from her face.

Her lips were pale. Her eyelids fluttered once — and then went still again.

He didn’t even realize he was talking until the dispatcher said, “Sir, you’re doing great.”

“She’s thirteen,” Aaron whispered. “She’s been dizzy and fainting for months. She’s got a specialist appointment in two weeks. I thought we were getting ahead of it.”

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“I should’ve done this sooner.”

The sirens came fast.

The EMTs moved efficiently. Oxygen. Heart monitor. Questions Aaron could barely process.

When Brooke finally came around, she was groggy. Disoriented. Her speech was slurred for the first few minutes, her eyes unfocused.

They loaded her into the ambulance.

Aaron climbed in after her.

Her hand was cold when he took it, but she squeezed back.

“Dad?” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he said. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

At the hospital, tests were run — again.

But this time, something was different.

The episode had lasted too long to ignore. The heart monitor picked up the instability. Her vitals stayed erratic for over an hour. And the attending physician — a younger doctor who’d just finished a rotation under a dysautonomia specialist — actually listened.

“She needs further evaluation,” he said. “This may be autonomic in nature. I’d recommend expedited cardiology review, if you can.”

“We have one scheduled,” Aaron said hoarsely. “Two weeks out.”

The doctor nodded. “Good. She needs it.”

It was the first time a doctor didn’t brush her off.

Brooke, pale and quiet in the hospital bed, let out a shaky laugh.

Aaron turned. “What’s funny?”

She gave a weak shrug. “I think this is the first time someone in a white coat didn’t look at me like I was making it up.”

Aaron reached for her hand again.

She didn’t let go.

They got home that night after midnight. She was too tired to talk, too drained to even eat. Aaron helped her change into pyjamas and pulled the blanket up around her in bed.

She was asleep in seconds.

But he didn’t leave.

He sat in the armchair beside her bed, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. He thought about all the times she said she was fine. All the days she went to school and came home pale and sweating. All the times she said nothing because she knew no one would believe her.

He watched her for hours.

And made himself a promise:

He would never dismiss her pain again.

Chapter Text

The house was unusually full for a Saturday morning.

Brooke sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, pencil tapping against her symptom journal while Ava, Jasmine, and Lilly flipped through pages and argued over the best way to organize a timeline of everything Brooke had experienced since her symptoms first started.

“Okay,” Ava said, chewing the cap of her pen. “We start with the basics: date of symptom onset, which was—?”

Brooke thought. “Technically thirteen. Like, right after I got over the flu.”

Jasmine nodded. “And you first fainted when you were—?”

“Thirteen. In my dad’s office.”

“Got it,” Lilly said, jotting it down. “And since then, it’s been… dizziness, fatigue, chest pain, palpitations, nausea, blurry vision, low blood pressure, near-fainting, actual fainting, and the fact that none of your doctors took you seriously for like a year and a half.”

“Don’t forget brain fog,” Brooke added quietly.

Ava snapped her fingers. “Right! The mental wipeouts. That goes under cognitive symptoms.”

They had colour-coded everything. Ava made the spreadsheet. Jasmine drew charts. Lilly reorganized Brooke’s logbook so it looked like something a specialist might actually read without glazing over.

And Brooke, for the first time in weeks, felt like she could breathe .

They didn’t ask her to explain why she was tired. They didn’t look at her funny when she had to sit down after walking across the room. They didn’t pretend they understood exactly what she was going through — but they listened.

And that meant everything.

“You’re going to rock this appointment,” Jasmine said, high-fiving her.

“Assuming I don’t pass out in the waiting room,” Brooke muttered.

Ava grinned. “You’ll pass out like a queen. ”

Brooke laughed — really laughed — and the girls all leaned in closer like they’d cracked the shell just for a second.

They didn’t know how close to the truth they were.

By early afternoon, the girls had gone home, promising to FaceTime her the night before her appointment to help her prep again.

Aaron had returned to the BAU for a few hours, reluctantly leaving Brooke with her journal, instructions to rest, and a stocked fridge. Emily had checked in twice already. Penelope had dropped off soup and herbal teas. Uncle Dave had left her a text that simply read: You’ve got this, kid.

Everything, in theory, should have felt safe.

But as the house settled into silence, the warmth began to drain from Brooke’s skin like air leaking from a balloon.

Her body ached. Her legs were cold. Her hands trembled.

But worse than the physical was the quiet.

Too much quiet meant too much thinking.

She sat on the couch, holding the perfectly organized symptom journal in her lap, staring at her handwriting. All the days she’d lost. All the symptoms that now defined her. All the proof that something was wrong… and that no one had been able to fix it.

Her chest tightened.

Her vision blurred.

And a thought returned — one she hadn’t let in since she was ten years old.

What if this is it?

What if this is forever?

Brooke stood slowly and wandered upstairs. Each step took a little more effort than the last. She passed her room. Passed her father’s door.

And found herself in front of the upstairs bathroom.

The one with the tall mirrored cabinet.

The one that held every prescription her dad had ever locked away from her — except now, she knew the code.

She’d heard it once by accident. He didn’t know she remembered.

She opened the door.

The mirrored cabinet creaked softly, and her reflection stared back at her — pale, dark circles under her eyes, sweater sleeves pulled over trembling hands.

She stared at the rows of bottles.

Sleeping pills. Pain medication from old injuries. Something for migraines. Another anti-nausea script he never used.

She wasn’t looking for any one of them in particular.

Just the idea of relief.

Of silence.

Of not having to keep pretending she wasn’t drowning.

Her fingers brushed against one of the bottles.

She didn't pick it up.

But she stared.

And for a long time, the world seemed to narrow.

Her mind filled with static — memories and fear and shame and that voice, that cruel, quiet voice that whispered:

You’re too much. You’re too broken. You’re never getting better. You’re dragging him down. They’ll all be better off without this constant burden.

The voice lied.

But it was loud.

Louder than she could take in that moment.

Her knees began to shake.

She gripped the counter.

Tears blurred her vision.

She didn’t move — didn’t speak.

She just stood there, hand frozen over the pill bottle, asking herself a question she couldn’t quite say out loud.

And then — her phone buzzed.

She jumped, startled.

It was a text.

Ava: Hey, your graph looks better than half my biology notes. You’re gonna blow this doc away. Love you.

The words hit like a slap.

Then another ping:

Jasmine: You good? Lilly and I are arguing over what you should wear to look “smart but also ill” lol

Brooke gasped — like surfacing from underwater — and slammed the cabinet shut.

She backed away so quickly she almost fell. Her hip hit the doorframe.

Her breath came fast and broken, tears streaming silently now as she clutched the sink and forced herself to focus.

Not on the shame.

Not on the darkness.

But on those stupid, beautiful messages.

They had no idea they’d just saved her life.

Downstairs twenty minutes later, wrapped in a blanket, Brooke sat on the couch and texted each of her friends something ridiculous. A photo of Dave’s dog in a Halloween costume. A TikTok of a baby goat in pyjamas. Something — anything — that reminded them she was still here.

Then she texted Emily.

Brooke: Can I come over tomorrow? Maybe just to hang out. Or not talk. Or talk a lot. I don’t know.

The reply came fast.

Emily: Yes. Always yes.

That night, Aaron returned home to find her asleep on the couch, her symptom journal still on the table, and the warmth in her cheeks just barely returning.

He sat beside her, brushing a hand through her hair.

She didn’t stir.

But even in sleep, a single tear clung to her lashes.

And Aaron — though he didn’t know what had almost happened — felt a chill in his chest.

He sat with her until the dawn.

Chapter Text

The BAU was unusually quiet for a Sunday.

Only a few agents were scattered through the bullpen. Reid was tucked into the corner of the conference room with two stacks of paper and three uncapped pens. Penelope had popped in briefly with cinnamon rolls and warm gossip before dashing back out. Rossi had declared it “a sacred day of wine and football” and refused to step foot in the building.

Emily, however, had arrived early — and stayed.

She needed to.

She’d hardly slept since Brooke’s text the night before. It had been short, casual on the surface, but too vague to ignore.

Can I come over tomorrow? Maybe just to hang out. Or not talk. Or talk a lot. I don’t know.

It hadn’t felt like a question.

It had felt like a flare in the dark.

So Emily had offered to meet her halfway.

Brooke arrived just after noon, bundled in an oversized cardigan and carrying her symptom journal like a fragile artifact. Her sneakers were loosely tied, and her hair — usually straight and tidy — was pulled into a low, unbrushed knot.

Her eyes looked like she hadn’t slept much either.

Emily met her in the lobby, offered a hug without pushing, and led her to the quiet lounge just beyond her office.

They sat.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

Emily didn’t need them to.

She made tea. Brooke picked at a muffin. And when the silence stretched long enough to be real, Emily broke it gently.

“I saw you texted your friends last night.”

Brooke nodded.

“They’re good ones,” Emily said softly. “The kind that show up.”

“I know.”

Brooke didn’t elaborate.

Emily leaned back. “You know, when I was about your age, I went through something that made me feel like I wasn’t… me anymore. Like my brain and my body had decided to go in opposite directions, and I couldn’t make them sync.”

Brooke’s eyes flicked up. “Was it medical?”

“No. But it was still real. And it still made me question if I’d ever feel like myself again.”

Brooke picked at the corner of her sleeve.

“I think the hardest part wasn’t even the pain,” she said quietly. “It was how… invisible everything felt. Like I was screaming underwater and everyone else just heard silence.”

Emily’s heart broke just a little.

“Brooke,” she said gently, “you don’t have to be okay for us to care.”

Brooke blinked hard.

“I know you’re strong. We all do. But even strong people have days where they fall apart. And those aren’t failures. They’re human.”

For a moment, it seemed like Brooke might finally let go — but then the wall came back up. She sat straighter. Cleared her throat.

“I just want to get through the appointment,” she said. “If they can tell me what’s wrong, maybe I can go back to being normal.”

“You don’t have to go back,” Emily said. “You just have to go forward. One step at a time.”

Brooke didn’t respond.

But when Emily reached out and took her hand, she didn’t pull away.

Down the hall, Spencer Reid stood outside Aaron’s office with his arms crossed.

He’d been watching.

Not in a clinical way. In a concerned, deeply personal way. And what he’d seen in Brooke’s posture, in the way she carried herself now, had shifted something in his chest.

He knocked.

Aaron looked up. “Hey.”

Spencer stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.

“I wanted to talk to you about Brooke.”

Aaron’s face shifted immediately. “Did something happen?”

“Not exactly,” Reid said. “But something’s… off.”

Aaron sat forward. “Go on.”

“She’s more than just tired,” Spencer said. “There’s a withdrawal happening. She’s not connecting the way she used to. Her expressions don’t match her words.”

Aaron rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know. I’ve seen it too.”

“I don’t think this is just the physical toll anymore,” Spencer said gently. “She’s unravelling emotionally. I saw it yesterday when she texted Emily. And I saw it again today when she came in.”

Aaron nodded, but his eyes were heavy.

“I’ve tried talking to her,” he said. “She says she’s fine, or she doesn’t want to talk. But I’m not an idiot. I know what she’s not saying.”

“You think she’s depressed.”

Aaron hesitated.

“Yes.”

Spencer sat down across from him.

“You know what the worst part is?” Aaron said quietly. “She was always so full of light. Even after losing Haley. Even when we thought we’d lost Emily. She’d cry and get angry and fall apart — but she always got back up.”

“She still can,” Spencer said.

“But what if I’ve already missed the moment when I could’ve stopped this from getting worse?”

“You haven’t,” Reid said firmly. “You’re still here. She’s still here. And that means there’s time.”

Aaron swallowed. “I don’t know how to reach her.”

“You don’t have to fix her,” Spencer said. “You just have to be here. Remind her she doesn’t have to carry all of it alone.”

Aaron looked away.

“I should’ve seen it earlier.”

“We all should’ve,” Reid said. “But what matters now is that we do see it.”

In the lounge, Brooke finally curled into Emily’s side, head resting on her shoulder like she used to when she was little.

Emily gently ran her hand through Brooke’s hair, saying nothing.

After a long silence, Brooke murmured, “I’m scared, Emily.”

Emily’s chest tightened. “Of what?”

“That they won’t find anything.”

Emily didn’t respond right away.

Then, softly: “What if they do?”

Brooke blinked.

“What if they find the thing that’s been making you feel like this?” Emily continued. “What if this is the start of something better?”

“I want to believe that,” Brooke whispered. “I really do.”

“Then let’s start there.”

Brooke closed her eyes and let the quiet settle in again.

For now, that was enough

Chapter Text

The air in the car felt too still.

Brooke sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring out the window at the towering glass entrance of Georgetown’s paediatric cardiology wing. A week ago, this appointment had felt like a lifeline — a tether she could cling to while everything else spiralled.

Now, it just felt like a test she was destined to fail.

“You ready?” Aaron asked gently from the driver’s seat.

Brooke didn’t answer right away.

“I guess.”

Aaron reached over and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Whatever happens in there, we’ll face it together.”

She nodded once, but didn’t look at him. Her stomach churned, her hands were cold, and she could already feel the familiar light-headed pressure building behind her eyes. She hadn’t even stepped inside yet.

The waiting room was painted in pale pastels, designed to be comforting, but it only made Brooke feel more like a patient.

Other teens sat slumped in chairs, flipping through phones or watching cartoons on a loop. A toddler in an oversized hoodie sat curled in her mother’s lap, coughing softly into her sleeve.

Brooke shifted uncomfortably.

Aaron filled out the last of the paperwork while Brooke sat silently, her symptom journal clutched in her arms.

She could hear every tick of the second hand on the wall clock. Every cough. Every whispered exchange.

Everything except the sound of her own heartbeat, which felt too fast, too uneven — as usual.

When the nurse finally called her name, she felt her throat tighten.

Dr. Amanda Cole was younger than Brooke expected. Kind eyes. Soft voice. Her office was quiet, lined with diplomas, and a window that overlooked the courtyard.

“Brooke,” she said warmly, shaking her hand. “I’ve gone through your intake files and your symptom journal. First of all, this is incredibly detailed. You’ve done an excellent job tracking.”

Brooke gave a weak smile. “I had help.”

Dr. Cole nodded. “Let’s go over a few things together. Then we’ll run some preliminary diagnostics, including a seated-to-standing blood pressure test, and an updated ECG.”

Brooke nodded silently, nerves clawing at her stomach.

Aaron stayed close by, sitting against the wall with his hands clasped tightly in front of him, gaze sharp.

The questioning took time — over 30 minutes.

Dr. Cole was thorough.

She asked about symptom frequency, meal patterns, salt intake, sleep, brain fog, GI symptoms, and changes in heart rate. Brooke answered everything as clearly as she could, though she could feel herself shrinking with each question she couldn’t answer perfectly.

Then came the standing test.

She stood. Waited.

The room spun.

Dr. Cole noted the drop in blood pressure and rise in heart rate, but made no sound.

They did the ECG again. It came back normal.

Always normal.

When it was over, Brooke sat back down, flushed, exhausted, heart still fluttering in her chest.

Dr. Cole offered her a glass of water and typed for several minutes on her computer before turning back to them.

“Well,” she said carefully, “this isn’t an easy conversation, but I want to be transparent.”

Brooke’s stomach sank.

“Your symptoms are real — that’s not in question. And what we observed today does suggest autonomic involvement. However, it’s not presenting in a classic pattern consistent enough for a confirmed POTS diagnosis. That doesn’t mean we won’t get answers — just that we may need a broader approach.”

Aaron leaned forward. “What kind of approach?”

“I’d like to refer you to two additional specialists,” Dr. Cole said gently. “A neurologist, to explore the possibility of central dysregulation — especially given the brain fog and fatigue. And a gastroenterologist, because of the nausea and digestion issues. We’re starting to learn that POTS and related conditions are multifaceted and may involve several systems.”

Brooke stared at her.

“But… I thought this was it. I thought you were supposed to tell me what I have.”

Dr. Cole’s eyes softened. “I understand. And I wish I could give you a clear diagnosis today. But it’s more complicated than that. What you’re experiencing is very real — and we’re going to keep fighting for clarity. This is just the next step.”

Brooke went quiet.

Completely still.

Aaron glanced at her, concern growing.

“Thank you,” he said quickly, sensing the shift in his daughter.

Dr. Cole handed them a folder with contact information, test results, and notes for the new referrals. Brooke took it without looking down.

“Please call me if symptoms worsen,” Dr. Cole added. “Or if you have trouble with the referrals. You’re not alone in this.”

Brooke didn’t speak.

She just nodded, eyes fixed on the floor.

The drive home was silent.

Aaron tried three times to ask how she was feeling.

She answered each time with a flat “fine.”

But the way her leg bounced — nonstop, knee jittering against the door — betrayed everything else.

When they pulled into the driveway, she got out of the car without waiting.

She went straight upstairs.

Aaron didn’t follow right away.

He sat in the car a little longer, hand on the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the back of his knuckles, wondering how many more rounds of this they’d have to survive.

Upstairs, the folder lay unopened on her bed.

Brooke sat on the edge of the bathtub.

The mirror was fogged from nothing.

Her reflection was pale.

Broken.

The cabinet door was still locked.

She didn’t need to open it this time.

She just stared.

The weight in her chest felt like someone had tied a brick to her lungs.

It didn’t help. Again.

I’m still a question mark.

Still “complex.” Still “unclear.”

Still in limbo.

Still sick.

And nobody could fix it.

She gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white.

The silence roared.

The spiral began again.

The same words repeated over and over.

You’re too much. You’re too complicated. You’re never going to get better.

She sat on the cold floor and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Tears came silently.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t break anything.

She just curled into herself like a child trying not to vanish.

That’s how Aaron found her ten minutes later.

He didn’t say anything.

He just sank to the floor and pulled her into his arms.

And for the first time in months, she didn’t pull away

Chapter Text

Brooke didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when she opened her eyes Thursday morning, sunlight was leaking through her window like a reminder she hadn’t asked for. The Georgetown appointment had come and gone. The cardiologist hadn’t offered answers — only more questions, more referrals, more waiting.

She hadn’t looked at the folder since.

It still sat on her dresser, taunting her with unopened hope and unspoken defeat.

They hadn’t even ruled anything out — they just passed her along. Like a riddle to be solved later. A maybe to be forwarded. A girl to be dealt with another day.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to sleep forever. She wanted… something to stop spinning.

Instead, she laid in bed.

And stayed there.

It was mid-afternoon when the knock came.

Not Aaron’s — too tentative. Not Emily’s — too rhythmic. This one was different.

More familiar.

Firm.

Like a presence, not a request.

Dave.

Brooke didn’t say anything.

He opened the door anyway.

“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping in and closing it behind him. “I brought no motivational speeches and zero unwanted wisdom.”

Brooke didn’t sit up. “You sure about that?”

He gave her a wry smile and lowered himself into the chair beside her desk.

“I also brought coffee,” he added, holding out a travel mug. “Full of sugar. Your dad would be horrified.”

She took it without looking him in the eye. Sipped once. Then twice.

Silence settled between them.

The good kind.

“I heard about the appointment,” Dave said finally.

Brooke nodded faintly.

“I know you were hoping for answers.”

She stared at the ceiling. “I wasn’t hoping. I was expecting.” Her voice was thin, brittle. “I needed something to make sense. I did everything right. I tracked everything. I handed them my entire life in that damn journal—”

She broke off. Bit her lip. Shook her head.

Dave let the silence sit again

Brooke looked down at the blanket pulled to her chest.

“I don’t like being seen like this,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Dave said. “But you’re not weak. You’re exhausted.”

She flinched.

“That’s the thing about long battles,” he added. “You stop realizing how long you’ve been fighting. You normalize the weight.”

“I’m not even sure who I am anymore,” Brooke admitted. “I don’t recognize myself. I’m either sick, or tired, or… pretending not to be both.”

Dave’s voice dropped.

“When was the last time you felt okay?”

She thought.

“I don’t remember.”

“Exactly,” he said gently. “And that’s not something a teenager should be able to say.”

Her eyes glistened, but she blinked fast.

“I don’t want to do therapy,” she whispered.

Dave nodded. “Okay.”

“No lectures?”

“Nope.”

“No Emily behind the door listening in?”

He smirked. “Not today.”

She sat up slightly, arms still wrapped around her knees. “What if it doesn’t help?”

“What if it does?”

Brooke didn’t answer.

But she didn’t shut down either.

“I think I’m scared that if I admit how bad it is, they’ll never see me the same again.”

“They won’t,” Dave said simply. “But that’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes the version of you they see now — the one that says ‘I’m fine’ while drowning — isn’t the one they need to keep seeing.”

A tear slipped from her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

Dave stood, walked over, and sat beside her on the bed.

Not close enough to crowd her — just enough to be there.

“I’ve lived a long life, Brooke. I’ve seen war zones and grief so sharp it cuts you open. And I’ve seen what happens when strong people stay quiet too long.”

Brooke glanced at him.

“You’re one of them,” he said. “The strong ones. But you don’t have to be a hero every damn day. That’s how people end up cracked in half.”

Another silence.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“Sometimes,” she said, “I stare at the medicine cabinet.”

Dave nodded slowly. “I know.”

“I haven’t… but I’ve thought about it. Just… what it would mean not to feel like this anymore.”

Dave didn’t flinch. He didn’t rush to stop her or hush her.

He let the words land.

Then he said, “Thank you for telling me.”

Her lip trembled.

“I didn’t want to die,” she said. “I just wanted a break.”

“I know.”

And then — finally — she collapsed into his side, sobbing into his shirt. He wrapped both arms around her, held her like something precious, like something worth keeping safe.

Because she was.

Downstairs that evening, Aaron found Dave pouring himself a small scotch in the kitchen.

“She talk?” Aaron asked.

“She did,” Dave replied. “And you should be proud of her. She said the truth out loud.”

Aaron exhaled slowly.

“She’s not okay,” he whispered.

“No,” Dave agreed. “But she’s still here. And for now, that’s enough.”

Upstairs, Brooke stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom.

The cabinet was still locked.

This time, she didn’t even try to open it.

Instead, she looked at her own reflection and said quietly:

“I want to get better.”

It wasn’t much.

But it was honest.

And for the first time in weeks, it felt like a start.

Chapter Text

Three days after her fourteenth birthday, Brooke Hotchner sat on the bathroom floor, palms braced against the cold tile, heart pounding so violently it blurred the edges of her vision.

She had woken up dizzy — nothing new. Her limbs were slow to respond, her stomach queasy, her breathing shallow. But she had pushed through worse. She showered. Brushed her teeth. Dressed slowly.

Then the pressure hit her like a sledgehammer.

It started in her chest — a weight and a flutter — and quickly exploded into her throat, her head, her vision.

By the time she made it to the sink, her hands were shaking. Her heart was racing.

She checked her watch, the one with the built-in heart rate monitor.

142 

143

She tried breathing slower. Tried grounding.

The numbers climbed.

161

By the time she stumbled out into the hallway, the pulse monitor blinked red.

192.

Everything narrowed.

She dropped to her knees.

Aaron heard the thud from the kitchen. He was halfway through a cup of coffee, scrolling through his case notes, when instinct took over.

He found her crumpled in the hallway outside the bathroom, pale and drenched in sweat.

“Brooke?”

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused.

He dropped to the floor.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was tight, controlled.

She tried to speak but couldn’t. She lifted her wrist, shoved it toward him. He read the number.

192.

His breath caught.

He reached for his phone immediately.

“No,” Brooke rasped. “Don’t—Dad, don’t call anyone—”

He ignored her.

His fingers flew across the screen.

“Hotch?”

Spencer’s voice came through immediately.

“She’s on the floor. She’s pale, soaked in sweat. Heart rate’s at 192. I’m not waiting for it to drop this time.”

“Call 911,” Reid said without hesitation. “That’s a red zone. She’s in danger.”

“She doesn’t want me to—”

“Hotch, listen to me. She could go into tachycardia-induced syncope or worse. You need paramedics now.”

Aaron ended the call and dialled 911.

Brooke whimpered.

“Please,” she gasped. “I don’t want to go. They won’t do anything. They’ll just say it’s stress again—”

Aaron cupped her face. “I know. But this is different.”

“I don’t want them to touch me,” she whispered. “I don’t want to go back there.”

Aaron’s chest ached.

“I’m not going to lose you,” he said. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I have to do this.”

The ambulance arrived in under seven minutes.

Brooke drifted in and out of awareness as they moved her to the gurney. She flinched at the cold of the oxygen cannula, the tight blood pressure cuff, the beeping, the shuffle of unfamiliar hands.

Aaron rode in the front seat of the ambulance, jaw clenched, barely breathing.

At the hospital, the chaos blurred.

Fluorescent lights. Sharp voices. The whirl of vitals. The hiss of machines. Questions she was too exhausted to answer.

Her heart rate had dropped to 168 by the time they reached the ER, but it was still far too high.

“She has a history of syncopal episodes and elevated heart rate,” Aaron explained rapidly. “This is the highest it’s ever been.”

A nurse tried to draw blood.

Brooke flinched violently and curled away.

“I don’t— I don’t want—stop—”

Aaron moved to her side and took her hand. “It’s okay. I’m here. I won’t let them hurt you.”

Her breathing was ragged. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I just wanted it to stop,” she whispered. “Just for a day.”

Aaron bowed his head. “I know, baby. I know.”

They were in a private room within the hour, though nothing felt private.

Brooke lay still on the hospital bed, hooked up to heart monitors, IV fluids running slowly into her arm. Her skin was clammy and pale. Her lips were chapped. She hadn’t spoken since they brought her in.

A young ER physician reviewed her charts, then turned to Aaron.

“We’ve stabilized her. Her heart rate’s down to 104. Still high, but manageable.”

Aaron nodded.

“We’ve reviewed previous workups, and unfortunately I can’t tell you anything different than what you already know. We suspect dysautonomia, but it’s not our field. You’ll need a neurologist and cardiologist to collaborate.”

Aaron kept his voice even. “She already has both. They’re… not sure either.”

The doctor nodded, too used to this, too calm.

Brooke closed her eyes.

She wanted to disappear.

Emily arrived shortly after, having raced straight from the BAU.

She entered the room quietly, her heels barely making a sound, and crossed to Brooke’s bedside.

Brooke blinked once, eyes full of tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Stop that,” Emily said softly. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Brooke turned away.

Emily brushed a hand through her hair. “I hate that you’re here. I hate that this keeps happening. But I love you. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Brooke’s voice cracked. “They still don’t know what it is.”

“I know.”

“They just keep saying maybe.”

“I know.”

Brooke shook her head. “What if it never gets better?”

Emily’s throat tightened. “Then we figure out how to live with it. One day at a time. With all of us around you. You’re not doing this alone.”

Brooke sobbed quietly.

Aaron couldn’t look away. He stood in the corner, hand over his mouth, shoulders tense with grief and fury he didn’t know where to place.

It was almost midnight when the cardiology resident came in with the discharge paperwork.

They weren’t keeping her.

Because her vitals were stable.

Because they didn’t know what else to do.

Because this was chronic, not emergent.

Because there was no answer yet.

Aaron signed everything in silence.

Brooke didn’t say a word the entire ride home.

She crawled into bed in her hoodie and socks without changing.

Aaron sat with her until she fell asleep, watching the monitor on her wrist, obsessing over every number, every blip.

And when the screen finally settled into a soft green zone — 82 BPM — he exhaled.

Not in relief.

But in exhaustion.

Because he knew this wasn’t over.

Chapter Text

It was raining again.

That grey, endless kind of rain that blurred the windows and turned the world outside into a watercolour painting left out too long.

Inside the house, it was too quiet.

Brooke hadn’t come downstairs all morning.

She hadn’t said a word to Aaron since they got home from the hospital two nights earlier. No thanks. No complaint. Just silence.

Not angry silence. Not even cold.

Just… empty.

Aaron hovered outside her door just after noon, coffee in hand, the same way he had the day before. He raised his hand to knock—paused—and let it drop.

She hadn’t wanted him there at the hospital.

She’d begged him not to call 911.

And he’d done it anyway.

Because he had to.

Because he’d seen the numbers, seen her body crumple under its own weight, and heard the desperation in Reid’s voice.

Still, her voice haunted him.

“They won’t do anything. They’ll just say it’s stress again.”

He hadn’t even been able to promise she was wrong.

Because she wasn’t.

Upstairs, Brooke sat on the floor beside her bed, knees pulled tightly to her chest, hoodie sleeves covering trembling hands.

She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s toast. Her stomach felt like a hollow drum — tight and cramping but refusing to call it hunger. Her head was foggy, like static had settled into the folds of her brain. And her limbs? Uncooperative. Every move felt like wading through glue.

But the worst part?

The quiet.

She couldn’t even cry.

Not anymore.

It was like her body had run out of grief. All that was left was a bitter hum under her skin, and the creeping belief that this might just be it. This broken version of herself.

The episode in the hallway had shattered something.

Not her trust in her dad — not fully — but in the illusion that she still had control over her life. Her body, her voice, her independence. That illusion was gone now.

And what replaced it was this: a deep, aching powerlessness.

That evening, she finally came downstairs.

Only because she had to. Not to eat, not to talk.

To escape the heat in her room, or maybe just to see what still felt real.

Aaron was asleep on the couch, files spread across the coffee table, one hand gripping the edge of a legal pad with Brooke’s name scribbled across the top.

She froze.

The page wasn’t just filled with medical terms and phone numbers. It had questions.

What am I missing?

Does she need inpatient care?

What do I do if she spirals again?

Reid — follow up on neuro contact?

Emily — mention mood shifts?

Brooke — talk when ready. Don’t push.

She stared at her name.

Then backed away.

Later that night, when the lights were off and the house had gone still again, Brooke snuck out onto the back porch, hoodie pulled tightly over her head, socks damp from the wet wood beneath her feet.

She didn’t have her phone.

Didn’t bring water or a blanket.

Just needed out.

The air was cold and clean and not asking anything of her.

She sat on the steps and pressed her palms to the floor to keep from floating away.

She thought of all the words she hadn’t said.

To her dad.

To Emily.

To herself.

And for a moment, just one sharp, gut-punch second — she hated all of it.

Hated her heart.

Hated the rain.

Hated the look on her dad’s face every time he tried not to cry.

Hated being this thing that everyone tiptoed around, like a glass box no one wanted to admit was already cracked.

She didn’t hear the door open behind her.

But she felt the footsteps before they landed beside her.

Dave.

Again.

He didn’t say a word. Just lowered himself to the steps beside her, handed her a mug of lukewarm tea, and sat there like it wasn’t cold.

“Is this gonna be one of your dramatic monologues?” she asked dully.

“Nope,” he said. “Just sitting.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“You want me to go?” he asked eventually.

“No.”

Another pause.

“Want me to talk?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“You want to pretend none of this is happening?”

“Yes.”

Dave took a sip of his own tea.

“Tough luck,” he said. “Still happening.”

She breathed out slowly through her nose. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I feel weak. I hate that he saw me like that.”

“He’s seen you your whole life,” Dave said gently. “Not just in that hallway.”

She blinked fast, fighting the sting in her eyes.

“I hate that my body keeps doing this and no one can fix it. And I hate that I don’t even know who I am when I’m not fighting to stand up straight.”

She finally looked at him. “Is this who I am now?”

“No,” he said. “It’s who you are right now. Big difference.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t look away either.

When she finally went back inside, it was close to 2 a.m.

Aaron stirred when he heard the door close.

He watched her walk past him toward the stairs, hoodie draped over her like armor.

She paused.

Looked back at him.

And said, quietly: “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know,” he said.

She nodded once, then added: “But… thanks for not letting me die.”

He swallowed hard. “Always.”

Then she disappeared upstairs.

And Aaron sat back down on the couch and let himself cry — not from relief, not from fear.

But because his daughter was still fighting.

And that meant he could, too

Chapter Text

It took six days.

Six days of almost-silence, of skipped meals and short answers, of Aaron watching his daughter disappear in fragments.

Emily was the one who finally said it out loud.

“She needs to go again.”

Aaron didn’t argue.

He just looked at the mug in his hands, untouched, and said, “She won’t go with me.”

Emily nodded. “Then she’ll go with me.”

It wasn’t an official specialist appointment this time — more of a stopgap. A referral from Dr. Cole, the cardiologist, to a colleague she trusted: Dr. Natalie Halvorsen, an internist who worked closely with patients who fell through the cracks between specialties. Someone who knew how to ask the right questions without making you feel like a riddle.

Brooke didn’t want to go. She didn’t trust it. But when Emily offered gently — “You and me, no pressure. If you change your mind on the way there, we turn around, grab donuts, and say nothing” — Brooke caved.

She didn’t want to disappoint Emily.

That mattered more than she wanted to admit.

The clinic was quiet. Subtle. Less sterile than the ER. There were books in the waiting room. Soft music. A golden retriever therapy dog laying under the reception desk.

Brooke sat curled on the couch beside Emily, her legs tucked under her, hoodie sleeves pulled over her fingers. She hadn’t said much since they got in the car, and even less since they checked in.

“You okay?” Emily asked gently.

Brooke shrugged. “Okay enough.”

Emily didn’t push. Just placed a warm hand on Brooke’s knee and waited.

A nurse called them in a few minutes later.

Dr. Halvorsen was in her early forties, with kind eyes and tired ones too. The kind of tired that came from years of listening, not disinterest.

She smiled softly. “Brooke. I’ve heard a lot about you from Dr. Cole.”

Brooke nodded warily. “All good things?”

“Only the stubborn ones.”

Brooke huffed — a ghost of a smile.

Emily sat beside her, watchful but quiet.

Dr. Halvorsen went over the basics — vitals, symptom history, new developments. She asked about the last episode. About hospital experiences. Brooke answered mechanically, like she was reading her own case file out loud.

But then Dr. Halvorsen paused.

Closed her laptop.

And looked at Brooke, not like a doctor this time — but like someone who understood what people didn’t say.

“Can I ask you something not on the chart?”

Brooke hesitated. “Okay.”

“When was the last time you felt like yourself?”

The question landed like a rock in her chest.

Brooke blinked. “I don’t know. I think… last year? Maybe?”

Dr. Halvorsen nodded. “And since then?”

Brooke looked down. “Like I’m fading.”

Emily’s heart clenched beside her.

Dr. Halvorsen didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Brooke stared at the floor. “I keep hoping someone will tell me what’s wrong. That it’ll all click. That I’ll finally get to feel normal again. But every time I go somewhere, they just… refer me to someone else. It’s like I’m not real unless I fit in a box. And I don’t.”

There was a pause. A beat of truth settling in.

Dr. Halvorsen’s voice was soft.

“That’s a heavy thing to carry. Especially when you’re still trying to be a kid.”

Brooke swallowed hard.

“I don’t even know if I am a kid anymore. I feel like I missed it. Like everyone else is moving forward — prom, college, sleepovers — and I’m just here, tracking my heart rate and trying not to pass out in the hallway.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Emily moved closer, gently brushing Brooke’s sleeve with her thumb.

Dr. Halvorsen nodded. “And when all of that builds up — the symptoms, the uncertainty, the being dismissed — it doesn’t just hurt your body. It wears down your hope.”

Brooke looked at her sharply.

And then, for the first time in days, she whispered the truth:

“Sometimes I wish I didn’t wake up.”

Emily’s breath caught.

But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry.

She reached out and took Brooke’s hand.

Brooke continued, her voice shaking. “Not in a scary way. Not like—I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to do this anymore. The waking up already tired. The dizzy spells. The being scared every time my chest hurts. The not knowing if people think I’m making it up.”

Dr. Halvorsen didn’t look shocked. She didn’t scold.

She nodded.

“Those feelings are valid. And they’re more common in people going through chronic illness than most doctors want to admit.”

Brooke blinked fast. “So I’m not crazy?”

“No,” Halvorsen said firmly. “You’re exhausted. And grieving. Because chronic illness is grief. It’s mourning the life you had and the one you thought was coming.”

Brooke broke.

Tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

Emily moved in, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to her temple. “You are not alone in this.”

Brooke sobbed into her shoulder. “I don’t want to be this version of me forever.”

“You won’t be,” Emily said. “But you have to let us help.”

Dr. Halvorsen waited until Brooke calmed, then handed her a new folder — but this one didn’t feel cold.

Inside were targeted referrals. A neuro-autonomic specialist. A psychiatrist who worked with chronic youth patients. And — handwritten — a note:

Brooke, you are not a mystery. You are a story still unfolding. Let’s keep reading together. – Dr. H

Brooke folded the note and placed it in her pocket.

She didn’t say much the rest of the visit.

But before they left, she looked at Dr. Halvorsen and said: “Thank you for seeing me.”

And meaning it.

In the car, Emily didn’t speak until they were halfway home.

Then: “I’m proud of you.”

Brooke leaned against the window, watching the trees blur.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“That’s okay,” Emily said. “You don’t have to be brave every second.”

Brooke turned her head slowly. “But I do, don’t I?”

Emily looked her straight in the eye.

“Not with us.”

Chapter Text

The house was quiet when they got back.

Emily parked out front, turned off the engine, and didn’t speak right away.

Brooke sat in the passenger seat, the folder from Dr. Halvorsen resting in her lap like it weighed a thousand pounds.

“You want me to come in with you?” Emily asked.

Brooke hesitated.

Then shook her head. “No. I think I need to talk to him alone.”

Emily nodded, brushing her thumb across Brooke’s knuckles. “I’m proud of you.”

Brooke gave her a tiny, grateful smile. It didn’t reach her eyes. But it was real.

Aaron was in the living room when she came in — sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch, his work bag still on the floor beside him like he hadn’t moved since getting home.

He stood the moment he saw her.

“You’re back.”

Brooke nodded.

She didn’t take off her shoes. Didn’t set down the folder.

She just stood there for a long second, staring at him.

Aaron’s chest tightened.

“How was it?” he asked gently.

Brooke didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she walked slowly across the room and set the folder down on the coffee table. Then she sat — not beside him, but across from him, knees pulled up onto the armchair, sleeves over her hands.

Finally, she looked at him.

And said:

“I almost opened the medicine cabinet again.”

Aaron froze.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Brooke swallowed.

“I didn’t. But I wanted to. I stood there for like… ten minutes last week just staring at it. Wondering if it would make everything quieter. Just… easier.”

Aaron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, but he didn’t reach for her.

Not yet.

“I don’t think I wanted to die,” she continued, voice shaking. “I just didn’t want to feel anymore. Not the fear. Not the guilt. Not the—this—emptiness.”

Aaron’s voice, when it came, was soft. “You’re not empty, sweetheart.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Then why do I feel like I’m disappearing?”

He couldn’t answer that.

But he did move closer.

Dropped to one knee in front of her, like he used to when she was small and scared of the dark.

“Because no one should have to carry what you’ve carried at your age,” he said. “Because your body is screaming, and no one has given you answers. And because you’re tired. I see it.”

Her lips trembled. “I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to make you feel like you failed.”

Aaron blinked hard, pain flashing across his face.

“You didn’t make me feel that way. I did that all by myself. Because I did miss it. Not the physical stuff — we’re working on that. But the emotional storm? The way you’ve been slipping behind your own walls? I should’ve fought harder to pull you back out.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” she whispered.

He sat on the floor and reached up to take her hand.

“You are the greatest thing in my life, Brooke. There’s never been a version of this where you are a burden.”

A tear fell down her cheek.

She let him hold her hand.

“I told Dr. Halvorsen today that I wished I didn’t wake up sometimes,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it like… like I was going to do something. But it scared me that I thought it.”

Aaron nodded slowly, heart breaking. “It scares me too. But I’m glad you said it. I’m glad you told someone.”

“I just don’t want to be this sick kid forever.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “You won’t be. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but we’re going to get through this. One breath at a time. You don’t have to hide anymore.”

She took a shaky breath.

“Promise me something,” she said.

“Anything.”

“If I ever look at that cabinet again — if I even think about it — can I tell you without you freaking out?”

Aaron’s voice caught in his throat. He nodded, eyes shining. “Yes. You tell me, and I’ll sit with you. I’ll listen. I won’t freak out.”

“Even if I don’t want advice or solutions?”

“Even then.”

Brooke reached out and leaned into him.

He pulled her close, holding her like a father holds his daughter after a storm — tight, steady, and without rushing anything.

They stayed like that on the floor for a long time.

No one had all the answers.

But finally, they were speaking the truth.

And that was a beginning

Chapter Text

The waiting room was quiet, but not sterile.

Soothing blue walls, soft leather chairs, a faint smell of peppermint. It didn’t feel like a hospital. And for the first time in a long while, that mattered to Brooke.

Emily had offered to go with her again.

So had Spencer.

Even JJ had sent a message that morning:

You’ve got this. It’s okay to want answers and still be scared of them. That’s what strength looks like. We’re proud of you.

But Brooke had chosen Aaron this time.

Because of what she’d said. And what he hadn’t said back.

Because he’d listened. Because he’d stayed.

Now they sat side by side, Aaron holding the paperwork and Brooke holding her breath.

A nurse stepped out. “Brooke Hotchner?”

She stood slowly, her legs stiff, heart ticking faster than usual. But not racing.

Not yet.

Aaron gently touched her back as they followed the nurse through a long hallway into a small, warmly lit exam room.

Five minutes later, the door opened.

“Hi, Brooke. I’m Dr. Patel.”

He was younger than she expected — maybe mid-thirties — with kind eyes and a quiet presence. He didn’t wear a white coat. Just a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a clipboard in his hand.

Brooke barely said hello. She kept her arms wrapped around herself.

But Dr. Patel didn’t seem fazed.

He sat down on a rolling stool, glanced over her chart, then looked directly at her.

“First off, I want to say something I don’t think enough doctors say to teenagers with unexplained symptoms.”

Brooke looked up.

“I believe you.”

She blinked fast, startled.

Dr. Patel nodded once, gently. “You don’t have to convince me. I’ve read your file. I’ve seen your ER notes. I’ve looked at your heart rate data, your symptom log. You’re not imagining this, and you’re not just anxious.”

Aaron let out a slow breath beside her. Brooke didn’t even realize she was shaking until she felt her own hands unclench.

“So,” Dr. Patel continued, “let’s start at the beginning. Tell me — in your own words — what’s been going on.”

And for once, she did.

She told him everything.

The dizzy spells. The racing heart. The morning nausea. The brain fog. The fainting. The school presentation. The medicine cabinet. The silence. The fear.

She expected him to interrupt. Or glance at Aaron for confirmation. Or write furiously, trying to catch every word.

But he just… listened.

And when she finished, he asked a few more questions — detailed but calm.

“When you faint, do you usually feel it coming?”

“Sometimes. I get this whooshing feeling in my head first.”

“Any headaches?”

“Only sometimes. But mostly I just feel like I’m moving in slow motion.”

He nodded. “Have you noticed triggers — like heat, standing too long, or not eating?”

Brooke glanced at Aaron. “Maybe. I forget to eat when I feel gross. But then I get worse.”

Dr. Patel smiled gently. “That lines up.”

After about thirty minutes, he leaned back and said:

“I think what you’re experiencing is a form of autonomic dysfunction — specifically something called Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. POTS for short.”

Brooke’s mouth went dry. “So… that’s real?”

“It’s very real,” he said. “And unfortunately, very misunderstood. Especially in young women.”

Aaron’s jaw clenched slightly.

Brooke’s eyes filled with cautious tears. “So it’s not just stress?”

“No,” Dr. Patel said. “It’s your autonomic nervous system failing to regulate blood flow when you change position. It makes your heart race, your brain foggy, your limbs weak — everything you described.”

She exhaled, shaky. “Okay… So now what?”

Dr. Patel smiled. “Now, we build you a toolbox.”

For the next twenty minutes, he walked her through practical tips and tricks to stabilize her day-to-day life:

• Increase salt intake to raise blood volume.
  
  
• Hydration goals — at least 2–3 liters per day.
  
  
• Compression socks for circulation, especially on school days.
  
  
• Slow posture changes — no jumping up from bed or standing too fast.
  
  
• Tracking symptoms daily with the understanding that bad days don’t mean failure.
  
  
• Light exercise (when tolerated), like recumbent biking or gentle yoga.
  
  

He also gave her a sample journal, not for obsessing — but to help her understand her patterns

That — more than anything — made her eyes burn.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome. I know this isn’t the end of it. But it’s a beginning. And sometimes, that’s everything.”

In the car, Brooke was quiet. Aaron didn’t press her.

But just before they pulled into the driveway, she finally said:

“Can you help me buy compression socks this weekend?”

Aaron blinked. “Of course.”

“And maybe… like… salty pretzels or something?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You bet.”

That night, she climbed into bed without the weight pressing quite as hard on her chest.

It wasn’t gone. The fear, the pain, the exhaustion — still there.

But now there was a name.

A plan.

A doctor who listened.

A dad who stayed.

And for the first time in months, Brooke let herself whisper something real into the dark:

“I think I’m going to be okay.”

Chapter Text

It started with dodgeball.

Not exactly a battlefield, but for Brooke Hotchner — three days into trying Dr. Patel’s salt-heavy, slow-motion morning routine — it may as well have been a war zone.

She’d worn the compression socks. She’d forced down Gatorade and pretzels and even a protein bar she hated. She was doing everything right.

But her heart was already ticking too fast when she stepped into the gym.

And that was before the sub.

Mr. Harrington was built like a former line backer and had all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. He barked orders like he was coaching a championship game.

“Phones in lockers, let’s move! Everyone on the court — no exceptions!”

Brooke moved slower than the others, staying near the wall, her water bottle clutched in one hand.

“Hotchner,” the man boomed. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

She froze. “I have a note—my doctor says—”

“I don’t care what your doctor says. You’re not special. Everyone plays.”

A few heads turned. Some kids looked away.

Brooke’s pulse spiked.

“I’m medically exempt. I can’t—”

“You’re not sick,” he snapped. “You’re lazy. Get on the court or I write you up.”

She stared at him.

Then at the ball in his hand.

The fluorescent lights buzzed above her. The room tilted, just slightly.

“I’m going to pass out if I do this.”

“Oh please,” he scoffed. “I’ve seen better acting on daytime TV.”

And that’s when it happened.

She stepped forward.

Heart racing.

Vision tunnelling.

She opened her mouth to say something else—but it was too late.

The gym floor met her with a cold thud.

They called the nurse first.

Then the principal.

But no one could reach Aaron because he was in a conference call with the Director.

So they called Emily.

Which meant everything changed.

Emily arrived ten minutes later in full BAU mode — blazer sharp, eyes sharper.

The nurse had Brooke on a cot with her feet elevated and cold packs on her neck, but she was barely coherent.

Emily crouched beside her, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead.

“Hey. I’m here, sweetheart. You’re okay.”

Brooke whimpered. “He called me lazy.”

Emily’s eyes went cold.

She stood and turned toward the principal’s office.

Aaron, Spencer, JJ, and Derek showed up fifteen minutes after that — Garcia already on speaker, practically vibrating with rage from Quantico.

By the time the team walked into the office, the principal looked like he’d aged ten years.

Mr. Harrington was standing stiffly near the filing cabinet, arms crossed.

Aaron stepped forward. Calm. Measured. Deadly.

“You humiliated my daughter in front of her classmates,” he said. “You ignored a doctor’s note. You accused her of faking a condition that is medically documented and potentially dangerous.”

“She was disrespectful—”

“She fainted,” Emily snapped.

JJ’s voice was low and razor sharp. “You endangered a minor with a known cardiac condition.”

Derek pointed a finger. “If she had hit her head, you’d be looking at a lawsuit — or worse.”

Spencer, holding a copy of the POTS information packet from Dr. Patel’s clinic, dropped it onto the desk.

“In case you want to educate yourself,” he said.

Mr. Harrington turned red.

But Aaron wasn’t done.

“My daughter has been in and out of hospitals for the last year. She’s fought to stay in school. She hates being treated differently. And the fact that she came to class today at all was a miracle.”

He stepped closer.

“You ever pull a stunt like this again — with her or any kid — I’ll personally make sure you never teach again.”

The room was silent.

Mr. Harrington mumbled something about not being properly briefed.

“Maybe next time,” Emily said coldly, “you’ll read the damn file.”

They took Brooke home early.

Aaron helped her change into sweats and tucked her into bed with a Gatorade and her favourite hoodie. He stayed by her side for an hour, just watching her breathe, hand wrapped around hers.

Later that night, Garcia sent her a care package of soft socks, weighted blankets, and a stuffed animal in the shape of a heart.

Emily brought soup and lavender oil and left it without comment.

And JJ texted her:

You didn’t deserve any of that. He was wrong. You are not lazy. You are brave. Always.

Brooke didn’t respond right away.

But just before bed, she texted back:

Thanks. Today sucked. But at least now I know I’m not alone

Chapter Text

Brooke didn’t go back to school the next day.

Aaron didn’t push.

He just brought her tea, made sure she ate something, and let her be — hovering from a respectful distance.

By mid afternoon, the house had gone quiet. Brooke sat curled up on the couch with a heating pad on her stomach, her compression socks halfway down her calves, and her phone untouched beside her. She wasn’t watching the movie playing on the TV. She just needed noise.

The knock on the front door surprised her.

She heard Aaron’s footsteps, a quiet exchange of voices.

Then: “You can go in.”

It was Rossi.

Not exactly who she expected.

“Hey, kid,” he said, stepping into the living room like he owned it — which, to be fair, he kind of did. Rossi had earned that right.

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “You come bearing baked goods or disappointment?”

He held up a white paper bag and handed it to her. “Cannoli. From that place in Georgetown you like.”

She peeked inside. “Okay, I take it back. You may enter.”

Rossi sat down in the chair across from her, hands steepled, face unusually unreadable.

“I heard what happened at school.”

Brooke groaned. “Don’t tell me Emily sent you on a ‘check on the emotionally imploding teenager’ mission.”

“Nope,” he said. “This was all me.”

That was suspicious.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Rossi leaned forward a little.

“Because I’ve been where you are. Not with POTS. But with pain. The kind no one sees until it swallows you.”

Brooke froze.

This wasn’t the usual Rossi speech — wise and witty and infuriatingly smug. This was… something else.

“I was about your age when my brother died,” he said. “I didn’t understand grief. Didn’t have the tools. And people stopped asking how I was after a while because I looked like I was coping.”

“You do that well,” Brooke murmured.

“Decades of practice,” he said.

He paused, letting the silence sit.

Then, “You know what scared me the most, though? When I realized I didn’t feel much of anything anymore.”

Brooke looked up sharply.

“That numbness you talked about,” he continued. “I lived in it for years. Even after I made something of myself, got married, became a dad — I still carried it. Until I nearly lost someone I loved, and it cracked me wide open.”

“Emily,” Brooke said quietly.

He nodded.

There was something incredibly raw in his eyes. The kind of ache that didn’t fade — just grew quieter over time.

“I saw the look in your eyes last week, Brooke. When you sat on the back steps and asked me if this was who you were now. That look? I know it. I’ve worn it.”

Brooke bit her bottom lip.

“I’m not strong all the time,” she said. “Sometimes I’m just… pretending to be.”

Rossi smiled gently. “Then you’re stronger than you think. Pretending takes guts.”

She laughed through her nose. “That sounds like something you’d put on a mug.”

“I probably already have.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

Then Brooke said something she hadn’t even told Emily.

“I used to think getting a diagnosis would fix everything. That once I had a name, I’d know who I was again.”

“And now?” Rossi asked.

“I’m starting to think maybe that’s not how it works.”

Rossi nodded slowly.

“It doesn’t. But it gives you the map.”

Brooke let that sit.

Then finally, softly: “I don’t want to disappear.”

“You won’t,” Rossi said. “You’ve got too many stubborn people watching your six.”

She smiled for real this time.

“Even you?”

“Especially me.”

That night, Brooke wrote in her symptom journal for the first time — not just the dizziness or heart rate, but the feelings.

October 2nd

Still tired. Still dizzy. Still scared.

But I think I’m still here.

And that has to count for something

Chapter Text

Brooke hadn’t wanted to go back.

After what happened in gym — after the gym floor, the ambulance, the sub’s ignorance, the way everyone looked at her like she was fragile glass — she’d almost asked Aaron if she could just finish the year from home.

But she didn’t.

Because pretending to be okay was still easier than explaining why she wasn’t.

And so she was here, again.

Locker 216. Squeaky hallway tiles. The slow drain of fluorescent lighting above.

She moved more cautiously now. Sat through classes with her water bottle clutched in both hands and a granola bar stuffed in her hoodie pocket just in case.

Her heart rate had still spiked in third period — math, because of course — and by fourth, her legs were shaking too much to pretend anymore.

So she’d slipped out and headed to the nurse.

Again.

Nurse Lewis didn’t even flinch when Brooke walked in.

“Want the bed or the chair?” she asked kindly, already reaching for an ice pack.

“Chair,” Brooke said, easing down. “Just need a second.”

Nurse Lewis gave her a look — the gentle, resigned one she’d started using in recent weeks. Brooke was in here enough now that she no longer had to explain.

“I’ve got saltines and Gatorade,” Lewis said. “Blue or red?”

“Red,” Brooke muttered, leaning her head against the wall. “Always red.”

She didn’t notice the boy at first.

He was in the cot behind the curtain, hunched over slightly, earbuds dangling around his neck and hoodie pulled high over his face.

She only realized he was there when he spoke.

“Red’s the superior flavour. That’s the only correct answer.”

Brooke blinked and turned her head toward the voice.

The boy peeked around the edge of the curtain. He looked a little older — maybe a junior — with tousled dark hair and sharp eyes that looked like they’d seen too much for his age.

“You a regular here too?” he asked.

She hesitated. “More than I want to be.”

He gave a wry smile. “Same.”

Nurse Lewis gave them both a knowing look. “You two can form a support group. The chronic lounge.”

“Like the sick kid table in the cafeteria,” he said.

Brooke cracked a smile. “Except we have better snacks.”

The boy held out a limp hand. “Luca. Professional hallway drifter and part-time horizontal napper.”

“Brooke,” she said. “Frequent flyer. Card-carrying member of the ‘not faking it’ club.”

Luca chuckled. “So what’s your deal?”

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “That’s forward.”

“I meant medical,” he said, grin lazy. “I’ve got Crohn’s. It sucks. Don’t recommend it.”

Brooke’s mouth opened slightly. “Oh. POTS. Mine’s newer. Still learning the ropes.”

Luca nodded like he understood completely. “Ah, the invisible fight.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in a brief silence, sipping Gatorade, surrounded by the soft buzz of the nurse’s station.

Then Brooke asked, “Do people believe you?”

“Sometimes,” Luca said. “Depends on the day. Depends who’s asking. Teachers mostly don’t. Kids don’t know what to say.”

“Same.”

He looked at her for a moment. “But I believe you.”

She blinked.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“You know what helps?” he asked. “Finding other ghosts.”

“Ghosts?”

“The ones like us,” he said. “Still here, still real, just invisible to most.”

Brooke smiled again — not the sad kind. The kind that caught her by surprise.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was standing completely alone.

Later That Night

Brooke sat at the kitchen table, turning her water bottle in slow circles while Aaron reheated soup on the stove.

“I met someone,” she said suddenly.

Aaron turned. “Oh?”

“At school. In the nurse’s office. He has Crohn’s. His name’s Luca.”

Aaron gave a small nod. “That’s good.”

“He gets it,” she said. “I didn’t have to explain every single thing.”

Aaron smiled gently. “I’m glad.”

Brooke hesitated. “I think… I needed to meet someone who knows what it feels like.”

“You’ve got us.”

“I know. But it’s different.”

Aaron nodded. “Then I’m really glad you found him.”

She paused, then added: “He said something. About ghosts. The ones like us — invisible but still here.”

Aaron’s chest tightened.

But Brooke smiled softly.

“I think maybe I’m one of the loud ones.”

Chapter Text

Brooke showed up to school on Monday with a water bottle in one hand, a packet of saltines in the other, and a look on her face that said, Try me.

The moment she stepped into homeroom, Ava leaned across the desk and whispered, “Oh thank God, she’s back.”

Brooke smirked. “What, you didn’t enjoy the emotionally spiralling ghost version of me?”

“I was starting to miss your snark,” Ava whispered back. “It was getting weirdly peaceful.”

Brooke flopped into her seat. “I’ll try to emotionally unravel more politely next time. Maybe while insulting someone’s haircut.”

Jasmine turned around with a grin. “Please tell me you heard what Mr. Keller said about you on Friday.”

“Oh no,” Brooke groaned. “What?”

“That you were out again and ‘likely milking it.’”

Brooke rolled her eyes so hard it was practically athletic. “Right. Because nothing screams luxury like dry heaving into a Target bag during third period.”

The whole group snorted.

Even the girl at the next desk — one of the quiet ones — cracked a smile.

By fourth period, Brooke had started to settle into a rhythm. Her heart wasn’t acting up, and the Gatorade-and-pretzel combo was holding strong. She even cracked a few sarcastic one-liners during biology that made her teacher pause mid-slide.

But it wasn’t until lunch that the full Brooke Hotchner experience returned.

“Hey,” Luca said, dropping into the seat across from her with his own tray. “You look less dead.”

“High praise,” Brooke said dryly, sipping through her red straw. “Feeling alive enough to insult someone? Maybe.”

He grinned. “Good to know your love language is sarcasm.”

“Yours seems to be blatant disregard for personal space.”

“Works for me.”

Ava raised her eyebrows. “Is this banter? Are we flirting?”

Brooke didn’t even flinch. “No. I flirt better when I’m near collapse.”

Jasmine nearly spit out her drink.

Luca, unfazed, stole one of Brooke’s carrots.

“Hey,” she said.

“You owe me after that terrible nurse’s office playlist you subjected me to.”

“It was lo-fi hip hop, you uncultured troll.”

He shrugged. “I rest my case.”

After school, when Aaron picked her up, he didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her buckle in, her hoodie sleeves rolled up and a faint smirk playing on her face.

Finally: “You seem… lighter.”

Brooke leaned her head against the window. “I may have insulted two teachers, three classmates, and a boy with Crohn’s today.”

Aaron smiled. “So, a normal day, then?”

She grinned. “Getting there.”

That night, at the dinner table with Emily and Dave, she was in full form.

Emily asked gently, “How was school?”

Brooke reached dramatically for her glass. “Tolerable. I only thought about death once, and that was during cafeteria pizza.”

Dave snorted into his wine glass.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “And the rest of your day?”

Brooke picked up a carrot stick. “Managed to go five hours without passing out, emotionally manipulated my biology teacher into giving me an extension, and flirted inappropriately in the nurse’s office.”

Aaron didn’t even blink. “Progress.”

“I know, right?” Brooke said. “At this rate, I’ll be back to being a full-blown menace by Friday.”

That night, as she lay in bed texting Luca something absurd about the dramatic social hierarchy of hallway traffic, she felt something settle in her chest.

Not ease. Not peace.

But something close to power.

Like she was finally remembering who she was.

Sick? Still. Dizzy? Sometimes. Scared? Often.

But fading?

Not anymore

Chapter Text

Brooke had been feeling good. Not perfect — but good enough to crack jokes, roll her eyes with purpose, and strut through the halls like she didn’t carry a blood pressure cuff in her backpack.

But it only took one moron to drag her right back into the ring.

It happened in the cafeteria. Brooke was sitting with Ava, Jasmine, and Luca, mid–rant about how their science teacher pronounced “mitochondria” like it was a fashion brand.

Across the room, Jared Niles — senior, soccer god, mouth breather — made the mistake of speaking.

“Look, if you’re too fragile to stand for gym, maybe just stay home. Like permanently.”

Brooke paused mid-bite.

Ava’s eyes widened.

Luca dropped his fork.

Jared clearly thought he was funny — smug, like he’d just landed the joke of the year.

Brooke slowly turned in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “Did your brain leak out of your ears between first period and now, or were you born with that level of stupidity?”

Jared raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “I’m just saying—”

“No, I’m saying,” Brooke snapped. “If you have something to say about me or my health, you can say it to my face. Or better yet, shove it so far down your throat that it chokes the next insult you try to spit out.”

“Jeez,” he muttered. “Calm down, it’s not like you have cancer.”

That’s when Luca stood up.

But Brooke was faster.

She was already on her feet, face flushed, fist clenched around her plastic fork like it might just become a weapon.

“Oh, so only cancer counts? Sorry my illness isn’t aesthetic enough for your underdeveloped peanut brain to comprehend!”

Someone gasped.

A teacher across the room called out, “Brooke—!”

“Say one more thing,” she said, stepping forward. “I dare you.”

Jared, to his credit, backed off. Not out of fear. Probably out of confusion. No one had ever told him off with this much verbal precision before.

By the time security stepped in, Brooke was vibrating with fury.

Fifteen minutes later, she was in the vice principal’s office.

A cold bottle of water in her hand.

And a lot of tension in her shoulders.

The door opened.

Not Aaron.

Emily.

Black blazer. Boots. No nonsense.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked at Brooke.

And Brooke — tired, heart still thumping, face still flushed — said nothing either.

Until finally:

“Okay, before you say anything, I didn’t actually hit him.”

Emily raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “You threatened him with a plastic fork.”

“Technically it was a spork.”

Emily blinked. “I’m both relieved and deeply concerned.”

“I didn’t throw it,” Brooke added. “Even though I really, really wanted to.”

Emily sat in the chair next to her, eyes softening. “What happened?”

Brooke exhaled. “He made a joke. About my illness. About how if it wasn’t cancer, it didn’t count.”

Emily didn’t flinch.

“Do you regret what you said?”

“No,” Brooke said immediately. Then quieter: “But I regret that I let him get to me. That I made a scene.”

Emily nodded slowly. “You’re allowed to be angry, Brooke. You’re allowed to defend yourself.”

“But?”

“But maybe next time, do it without a weaponized cafeteria utensil.”

Brooke grinned despite herself. “Noted.”

Emily leaned forward, voice low. “You know what I’m most proud of?”

“What?”

“That you stood up. That you didn’t shrink. That you reminded every kid at that table you’re not someone to mock.”

Brooke’s throat tightened.

Then: “Do I have to tell Dad?”

Emily’s smirk returned. “Oh, I already did. He’s currently trying not to laugh while writing an email to the school district about disability education.”

Brooke snorted. “I love that man.”

Emily stood and held out a hand.

“Come on, menace. Let’s get out of here before you re-enact Mean Girls with school-issued cutlery.”

Chapter Text

Brooke knew the minute she opened her eyes that it was going to be one of those days.

The kind where her limbs felt like they were underwater.

The kind where her heart raced just from brushing her teeth.

The kind where blinking too fast made the world spin.

She managed to get dressed — leggings, hoodie, socks she barely had the strength to pull up — and sat slumped on her bed, hoping the Gatorade on her nightstand would perform some kind of miracle.

It didn’t.

When Aaron peeked into her room and saw her still sitting there twenty minutes later, he didn’t ask questions. Just gently said, “You’re coming with me today.”

Brooke didn’t argue.

She couldn’t.

The bullpen was unusually quiet that morning. Spencer was at a conference, JJ had taken Henry to the dentist, and Garcia had called in because she said her emotional support cat needed her.

So when Brooke arrived — pale, quiet, hood up — there weren’t many people to see her ghost herself into Hotch’s office.

He kept the blinds mostly closed. Turned on the desk lamp instead of the overheads. Rolled out the little couch under the windows and set a folded BAU blanket on top like he’d known this was coming.

He hadn’t even sat down yet when she whispered, “Sorry.”

“For what?” Aaron asked gently.

“For being like this again.”

Aaron looked at her, really looked at her — flushed cheeks, cracked lips, the familiar glassiness in her eyes when her heart was racing faster than it should.

He crouched in front of the couch and placed the back of his hand on her forehead.

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said quietly. “Your body is tired. That’s not your fault.”

Brooke’s eyes burned.

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

“I feel broken.”

“You’re not.”

She laid down without protest. He helped tuck the blanket around her and handed her a strawed water bottle without saying a word.

Hours passed in slow motion.

Aaron worked quietly at his desk, occasionally glancing over to check on her. She dozed in and out, music playing softly through one earbud, her legs curled up tightly beneath her.

Emily came in around noon and paused in the doorway.

“Rough one?” she whispered.

Aaron nodded.

Emily didn’t come in — just gave Brooke a little salute from the door and mouthed, Hang in there, kiddo.

Brooke gave a half-smile and returned to staring at the ceiling tiles.

By 2:00, she had just enough strength to sit up for a few minutes.

Aaron handed her a banana and some pretzels. She ate in silence, her stomach churning, but didn’t throw up — a small win.

“You know,” she mumbled between bites, “this couch sucks.”

Aaron smirked without looking up from his laptop. “It’s government-issued.”

“Makes sense. I think it’s made of recycled cardboard and broken dreams.”

“You sound better.”

“Snark always comes back before the energy.”

At 4:00, Derek stuck his head in the door.

He didn’t say anything at first — just took in the image of Brooke wrapped in a blanket, pale but upright, sipping a Gatorade like it was fine wine.

“Hey, fighter,” he said softly.

“Hey, bodybuilder.”

“You need anything?”

“A better nervous system,” she said dryly.

Derek smiled. “I’ll put it on the requisition list.”

That night, Aaron drove her home in silence.

Not because there was nothing to say — but because they both knew nothing needed to be said.

The flare was winding down.

The ache hadn’t gone away.

But she had made it through.

And tomorrow, maybe she’d feel stronger again

Chapter Text

Brooke was not in the mood for homework.

She had four makeup assignments waiting for her after missing a day at school, two unread texts from her English teacher, and one fully functioning glare she was ready to unleash on whoever dared to ask her about them.

So naturally, she found herself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by open notebooks, highlighters, and an untouched textbook she had no intention of reading.

“Studying?” Aaron asked as he walked by, holding a laundry basket.

Brooke looked up at him with deadpan precision. “Yes. I’m studying the ways in which paper can be scattered across a carpet for maximum visual chaos.”

Aaron smirked and kept walking.

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang.

Brooke didn’t move — she figured if it was a package, it could wait. If it was Dave, he had a key. And if it was a neighbour, they could go away politely.

But when she heard the voice shout, “Delivery for the sass queen!” she sat up fast.

Garcia.

Brooke scrambled to her feet just as Aaron opened the door, shaking his head with affection.

Penelope Garcia swept in like a glitter storm, carrying three pizza boxes and a box of dessert cannoli. She wore purple cat-eye glasses and a bright orange cardigan that clashed perfectly with her neon sneakers.

“I heard someone had a rough day,” Garcia sang. “So I brought carbs. And sugar. And questionable emotional boundaries!”

Brooke beamed. “Bless you, Mother Pizza.”

The three of them sat on the floor around the coffee table, eating in what could only be described as joyful disarray. Garcia peppered her conversation with dramatic flair and swooned every time Brooke said something sarcastic.

“You know,” Garcia said, halfway through her second slice, “you are absolutely allowed to feel terrible and still make people laugh.”

Brooke tilted her head. “You’re saying I’m funny and broken?”

“I’m saying you’re a force of nature,” Garcia said. “Hurricanes don’t apologize for their power.”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. “Did you just compare my daughter to a natural disaster?”

“Absolutely,” Garcia said. “And if anyone gets in her way, she’ll level them with eye rolls and highly specific insults.”

Brooke leaned back, a little lighter than before. “I’ll take it.”

Later that night, after Garcia had left with promises to text at least seventeen memes by morning, Brooke cleaned up her school papers half-heartedly and plopped back onto the couch.

Aaron sat down beside her, silently passing her a mug of tea.

“Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.”

She stared at the steam for a moment before asking, “Do you ever think I’ll go back to being normal?”

Aaron thought about it.

Then gently said, “I think you’re creating a new version of normal. And I think she’s kind of a badass.”

Brooke smiled into her tea.

“I mean, she did survive a full pizza dinner with Garcia.”

“Exactly.”

She rested her head against his shoulder, and for the first time in a while, let herself just exist.

No pressure.

No test.

Just Brooke.

Flawed. Fierce.

And still standing

Chapter Text

Six Months Later…

Brooke Hotchner dropped into the same worn office chair she’d practically claimed two years ago, her backpack hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Her hoodie sleeves were bunched over cold hands. Her face was pale, but her eyeliner was sharp — armor in the form of smudged black wings.

She pulled her legs up into the chair and curled inward, trying to ignore the fact that her heart was racing again… just from walking across the bullpen.

JJ noticed.

Of course she did.

“Hey, kid,” JJ said, stepping out of the conference room. “Rough day?”

Brooke shrugged. “Define ‘rough.’ If you mean ‘nearly blacked out in second period and had to pretend I was tying my shoe for a full minute,’ then yeah. Classic Thursday.”

JJ frowned. “Did you tell your dad?”

“No. What’s the point?” Brooke’s voice was flat. “He’ll ask if I drank water, if I ate enough, if I’m stressed. And then we’ll both pretend the last two years haven’t been the worst rerun ever.”

JJ didn’t answer right away.

Because what could she say?

Brooke had been to every kind of specialist: cardiologists, neurologists, gastroenterologist, paediatricians, psychologists. And every one of them had given her the same thing.

Nothing.

No answers. No diagnosis. Just vague smiles and referrals and “You’re a teenage girl — hormones can do wild things.”

Apart from one doctor. 

Dr Patel

They all treated her like her symptoms were dramatic exaggerations. As if the fainting, the chest pain, the bone-deep fatigue, the brain fog… were her just being fifteen.

But Brooke remembered who she used to be — energetic, quick, sarcastic in a funny way.

Now she felt like a ghost in a hoodie, fighting her own body every time she stood up.

Flashback – 6 Months Ago – Doctor’s Office #9

“I don’t think we need to keep chasing a diagnosis,” the doctor said kindly. “Everything looks normal. Your heart rate, your labs, your echo — all unremarkable.”

Brooke had stared at her blankly.

“I nearly faint when I stand up. My chest gets tight when I talk too long. My legs feel like concrete after gym.”

“I understand that it’s frustrating,” the doctor had replied, “but sometimes symptoms are rooted in anxiety. Maybe you’re internalizing stress.”

Aaron had sat beside her, silent.

It was the first time Brooke hadn’t looked at him after a doctor said it.

Because for the first time, she didn’t trust him to defend her anymore.

Present – BAU Break Room 

Brooke sat at the table with Emily, sipping a Gatorade and zoning out at the wall.

Emily watched her carefully. “Your hands are shaking.”

Brooke didn’t look up. “They always shake. That’s the grand finale of being ‘fine.’”

Emily frowned. “You had to sit down after a single flight of stairs.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

Brooke slammed the bottle down. “Then maybe I’m always sick and no one’s doing anything about it!”

The silence after that was deafening.

Emily just said quietly, “We believe you.”

“No, you don’t,” Brooke whispered. “You say you do, but I see it. You all think it’s in my head.”

“Not in your head. In your nervous system, maybe. But not imagined.”

Brooke’s voice broke a little. “I don’t even remember what it’s like to feel normal.”

Emily reached across the table and held her hand.

“Then let’s keep going. As long as it takes.”

Brooke sat on the kitchen counter, sipping broth from a mug. She hadn’t been able to eat all day — again.

Aaron moved quietly around her, eyes flicking to the pulse oximeter he’d bought six months ago. He didn’t even ask anymore. Just clipped it to her finger.

93 bpm… sitting.

“Still too high,” he muttered.

Brooke gave a humourless laugh. “Maybe my heart just wants to be dramatic. She’s the only part of me with a personality left.”

Aaron leaned against the counter beside her. “Dr. Patel’s reviewing your file again. He said he might refer you for a tilt table test.”

Brooke raised an eyebrow. “That’s what, the fifth time someone’s considered that?”

He didn’t answer.

Because it was the truth.

Brooke looked away. “I don’t want to be this person anymore.”

Aaron’s voice was low. “You’re not your illness.”

“I’m not anything but my illness,” she snapped. “I’ve been trying to explain what’s happening to me for two years. I’ve missed dances, sleepovers, half my freshman year, and for what? More labs? Another ‘normal result’? Another doctor telling me I’m just stressed because I’m fifteen and female?”

Her voice cracked. “It’s not stress. It’s not hormones. It’s something. And I’m so tired of fighting to be heard.”

Aaron swallowed hard. Then said the only thing he could:

“I believe you.”

She lay awake again, too tired to sleep, too wired to rest.

The fan buzzed above her. The house was quiet.

And still, her heart raced.

Brooke’s search history:

• fainting after standing up
  
  
• rapid heart rate while lying down
  
  
• POTS symptoms teen girl
  
  
• chronic fatigue no diagnosis
  
  
• why don’t doctors listen to teen girls
  
  

She stared at the last search for a long time.

Then turned off her screen.

And whispered into the dark:

“I’m not making this up.”

Chapter Text

God, this place smells like hand sanitizer and lies,” Brooke muttered, tugging the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands.

Emily smiled tightly beside her. “Think of it this way: they’re finally running the right test.”

“Or they’ll say I’m overreacting when I pass out on cue,” Brooke said, her voice laced with that now-familiar venom: sarcasm soaked in exhaustion.

Emily glanced at her. “Let me handle that.”

Brooke didn’t reply, but she shifted slightly closer.

 Prepping for the Tilt Table Test

A nurse clipped monitors to Brooke’s chest and finger while she lay flat on the motorized table, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her legs shook slightly, though she pretended not to notice.

“Fifteen minutes lying down, then we tilt you upright for up to forty-five minutes. If anything changes — dizziness, heart racing, nausea — you tell us, okay?”

Brooke nodded once. “Cool. Let’s make gravity regret ever meeting me.”

The nurse chuckled politely.

Emily, standing off to the side with arms crossed and sharp eyes, didn’t laugh.

She was watching everything.

Within three minutes of being tilted upright, Brooke’s heart rate shot from 78 to 133. Her breathing quickened. She blinked repeatedly, pale, trying to stay still even as sweat dotted her temples.

“Feeling okay?” the nurse asked.

“No,” Brooke whispered. “I feel—”

Her head lolled slightly. The monitor beeped faster. Her legs trembled.

“I’m gonna pass out,” she murmured.

“Lowering the table,” the nurse said quickly.

By the time they got her horizontal again, her heart rate dropped—but her body stayed trembling, like it was stuck between panic and paralysis.

Emily stepped forward. “That’s not stress.”

The nurse hesitated. “We’ll let the doctor review it.”

“No.” Emily’s voice was ice. “You don’t need a review to see what’s happening. Her heart rate jumped nearly sixty points. Her body crashed. This isn’t some vague teenage mood swing. This is real. And it’s not new.”

The nurse gave her a careful look. “The doctor will speak to you shortly.”

“Good,” Emily said, jaw tight. “Because we’re not leaving without answers.”

Brooke sat curled up in the chair, hoodie sleeves over her fingers, head against the wall.

“I’m not crazy,” she whispered. “I didn’t make that happen.”

Emily sat beside her and took her hand. “No, you didn’t. You never were crazy. They just didn’t know what they were looking for.”

The doctor entered a moment later, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable.

“We reviewed the results. Brooke’s heart rate increased by more than 50 bpm within a few minutes of being upright. She exhibited symptoms consistent with orthostatic intolerance, and—”

“Is it POTS?” Brooke asked flatly.

The doctor paused, then nodded. “Yes. Based on today’s findings and your history, you meet the criteria for Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome.”

Brooke’s body went completely still.

Then:

“…You believe me.”

Emily reached over, brushing a hand down her arm. “They believe you.”

Brooke’s eyes filled, but she didn’t cry.

She just said, with a voice barely above a whisper:

“I told them.”

“Whatever you want,” Emily said. “It’s a diagnosis day. That’s basically a birthday.”

“Venti pink drink with light ice,” Brooke said. “And a chocolate croissant. And I want you to say ‘I was right’ three times.”

Emily gave her a look. “I’d rather eat glass.”

Brooke smiled — a real one, small but bright. “You came with me.”

“Always.”

“No offense,” Brooke said, sipping her drink as they pulled away, “but I’m kind of glad Dad didn’t come. He would’ve hovered like a drone and tried to explain everything.”

Emily smirked. “You just wanted someone who’d let you throw sarcasm at the nurses.”

“Obviously.”

There was a pause, then Brooke added:

“I don’t feel better. But I finally feel heard. That’s something.”

“It’s everything,” Emily said softly. “And it’s the start.”

Aaron looked up as Brooke walked in the door. She didn’t say anything right away, just dropped her bag and stared at him for a second.

Then:

“It’s POTS.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You got a diagnosis?”

She nodded. “Emily made them listen.”

Aaron walked over and gently pulled her into a hug. She didn’t resist.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “You didn’t stop pushing.”

Brooke whispered against his chest, “I thought maybe it was all in my head.”

Aaron’s voice cracked just a little. “I never thought that.”

“I know. But it’s nice to hear.”