"I thought he'd..." He breathed harshly as a wave of pain hit him. Keep talking, keep talking... "...hurt you." He'd been shot once before, a long time ago; the feeling of coldness settling over him was vaguely familiar, the rapid pulse, the way his words made sense in his head until he spoke, and then they felt sluggish and disjointed. "You have to be...okay." They had established that he was, but it felt important for some reason for Rossi to say that, to justify why he'd done what he'd done.

His eyes met Reid's, but they felt glassy, and his eyelids were just too heavy; they drooped as his head lolled to the side.