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Everything about this case was going absolutely fabulous, up until the unsub hid behind a corner and stabbed Spencer.
He had his gun drawn and everything, he should’ve had the upper hand. Spencer kept his foot falls quiet, stalking around the house with Hotch. The house that was just supposed to be a crime scene. They weren’t expecting the damned unsub to open the door.
Spencer worries about the IQ of serial killers.
However before he can dwell on that fact, he shoots the unsub in the shoulder, causing him to twist, before falling in the hallway, legs awkwardly squashed between the walls. Spencer takes a step forward to cuff him, but as soon as he brings his left leg down, he collapses.
Confused, he looks down, only to find a wooden handle sticking out of his leg. It takes all of his 187 IQ points to catch up.
Handles are connected to something.
Something is in his leg.
A knife.
Wait. A knife is in his leg.
As if waiting for a cue, the pain instantly erupts up his leg, throbbing in time with his heart. He drops his gun, pressing his hands down around the knife, only slightly shaking.
Hotch must’ve heard the gunshot and two thumps of bodies, because a few moments later he turns the same hallway corner, unprepared for the sight that greets him.
The first thing Hotch thinks is that he’d be much more comfortable with his vest. Not just for being bulletproof, but because the damned thing has an emergency radio. There’s no way he’ll manage to get a signal out here. Then, keeping his gun trained on the unsub, he questions, “Reid?”
Barely trusting his voice, he groans, “He isn’t cuffed yet, Hotch,”
“I got it, I got it,” Hotch nods, double checking that the unsub isn’t hiding a weapon.
Like a knife. Or something.
Hotch quickly moves to cuff the man, but stops when he doesn’t see the familiar rise and fall of humans’ chests. With a frown, Hotch double checks the carotid artery. He’s dead, but the unit chief has other things to deal with that don’t involve a dead serial killer.
To his horror, he sees Spencer grip the hilt of the knife. “Reid, no!” Hotch quickly kneels down next to his subordinate, gently attempting to pull his hands away from the knife. “Reid, it might’ve hit an artery, you know you can’t take it out,”
Spencer gives a lethargic blink, but nods nonetheless. That being said, he still brings his hands back to his thigh.
“Reid, stop,” Hotch orders, moving Spencer’s hand out of the way once again.
“Hurts,” Spencer gulps, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.
“I know, I know,” Hotch soothes. “But we can’t take it out. You know we can’t.”
With a nod, Spencer splutters out, “When the femoral artery is sliced or ruptured, it only takes a couple of minutes until the body bleeds out. It’s actually one of the most efficient ways to cause someone to bleed out, save for the carotid artery,”
Hotch pales with the reminder that Spencer may only have a couple minutes if the knife is pulled out, but quickly collects himself. “You’ll be fine, you’re going to be fine,” He soothes, wishing that he could make it a promise.
“The unsub?” Spencer chokes out.
“Dead.”
“‘Thought I only got him in the shoulder,” Spencer mumbles, hands unconsciously finding their way back to his thigh.
Pushing Spencer’s fingers away once again, Hotch reports, “You ended up hitting him in the heart.”
“Oh.” Spencer frowns, and Hotch can already tell he’s beating himself up about it.
“It’s fine, Reid. He attacked you with a knife, it was self defense.”
“I know,” Spencer mutters in the way that tells Hotch he definitely doesn’t believe him.
Hotch debates his options on what to do with Spencer’s wound, before pulling out his phone and cursing. There’s no signal. “Reid, where’s your phone?”
“Bag,” He mumbles, and Hotch lets out another curse. The beloved messenger bag is back in the SUV, a quarter mile back.
The SUV is a quarter mile back.
There’s no cell service, and the SUV is a quarter mile back.
Hotch is pulled from his thoughts when Spencer moves his hands yet again to his leg. “Reid.”
Clenching his eyes shut, Spencer leans back against the hallway wall before apologizing, “Sorry, sorry,”
“If I go find a rag, are you going to try and pull out the knife?”
Spencer shakes his head, but that’s not good enough for Hotch.
“Yes or no, Spencer?”
“I won’t pull it out,” He mumbles, eyes still held tightly closed.
Already regretting his decision, Hotch informs him, “I’ll be less than a minute. Keep your hands away from your leg, got it?”
“Yep,” He exhales.
True to his word, Hotch is only gone for forty three seconds, four kitchen rags in tow. But as soon as he moves to put pressure on it, Spencer jerks up.
“No, wait!”
“Reid?” Hotch questions with a worried look. “What’s wrong?”
Sucking in a pained breath he gulps, “You could shift the knife,”
Bringing his hand back to his lap, Hotch finishes, “And sever your artery. Right.” Spencer nods, his entire body full of tight, jerky movements. “You should probably lean back.”
“Mm.” Spencer confirms, resting his head against the 80s style wallpaper. “I never liked the woods, you know.”
“Is that so?” Hotch asks, only half paying attention. Right now, the majority of his brain power is trying to figure out the way to get his youngest agent out of this alive.
“The only time we ever went out in the woods is when we went camping,”
Playing along, Hotch continues, “That doesn’t seem so bad,”
“It was because my mom thought the government was listening to her, and the forest was the only way to get away.”
Hotch winces at the other shoe drops. Frankly, he doesn’t know what he was expecting when it came to memories of the Reid family. “Well, we’re getting out of the forest in a second. Do you think you can stand?”
Spencer gives him a look that says, ‘absolutely not,’ but still nods, “With your help, maybe.”
Stuffing the rags in his pockets, Hotch attempts to figure out the best way to do this. Eventually, he settles on sticking his forearms underneath Spencer’s armpits. “On three, okay?”
Spencer gives a silent nod of approval.
“One, two, three,” He grunts out, using his upper body strength to hold nearly all of his agent’s weight.
They get nearly all of the way up before Spencer groans out, “Ngg, Hotch, don’t ,”
Alarmed, Hotch questions, “Reid? What’s wrong?”
“Down,” He chokes out, “Back down. Please, ”
Silently, Hotch lowers Spencer back to the floor, taking extra care to make sure his left leg isn’t jostled anymore than strictly necessary.
With clenched fists, Spencer harshly breathes through his nose.
After a few tense moments, Hotch sadly insists, “We have to try again. We have to get you to the car,”
Spencer mumbles something so quietly that Hotch can’t hear it through his bad ear.
“What?”
“Get it out,”
“Reid, you know I can’t-”
“ Please ,” Spencer pleads, voice breaking. “Get it out, Hotch. Get it out!”
Resolve crumbling, Hotch apologizes, “I can’t, Reid- Spencer. I can’t take the knife out. You could bleed out.”
“God,” Spencer sobs, knowing that Hotch speaks the truth. “You’ve gotta put pressure on it,” He stutters out.
With pinched eyebrows, Hotch frowns, “But it could shift the knife, I can’t risk it,”
Motioning to the steadily growing pool of blood around him, Spencer points out, “I’ll bleed out anyway if you don’t. Lesser of two evils,” He adds at the end, which only deepens Hotch’s frown.
Pulling the rags back out of his pocket, he questions, “What’s the best way for me to do this?”
“One on top, one on bottom,”
“Which one first?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just do them quickly.”
Only able to nod, Hotch straightens one of the rags out, before compulsively folding it into a neat little rectangle. “Do you want me to count down?”
“Just do it,” Spencer moans, eyes closed from pain.
Nodding, even though the recipient can’t see it, Hotch presses the first rag down above the knife with one hand.
Spencer cries out, and Hotch feels his stomach twist itself into knots.
“Sorry, sorry,” Hotch apologizes, before grabbing another rag to tie around the first one, keeping it secured.
Spencer openly sobs when he tightens the knot, and Hotch thinks that his stomach must surely be looking like tangle on his subordinate’s leg.
“Halfway done,” Hotch announces, but Spencer makes no indication that he’s listening.
Hotch repeats the same process, folding one rag in half before pressing it down below the knife.
“Stop, stop,” Spencer sobs out, but Hotch knows he can’t.
“I’m sorry,” He replies, heart breaking. “It’s almost done, I promise,” He ties the knot of the last rag, and falls back on his heels, trying not to think about his red stained hands.
Spencer is still heaving, still living the pain, as if Hotch is continuously tightening the rags. When he sees the blood easily seep into the cloth, he wonders if he should be.
Clearing his throat, he questions, “Reid?” When there’s no answer, he tries again, this time more forcefully. “Reid.”
Through a ragged and shaky breath he mumbles, “‘M fine.”
Hotch knows it isn’t true. “Reid, we have to go. I’m sorry.”
Spencer nods with understanding, but stays completely limp.
“I’m going to pull you up again, got it? Just like last time,” Hotch instructs, taking lead. “And after you’re going to lean on me, okay? As much as you want. As much as you can. Don’t put any pressure down on your left leg. Got it?” There’s no reply, and for a few panicked seconds Hotch is sure his youngest agent has fainted. “Reid? Got it?”
“Got it,” He echos, sounding like he most certainly does not ‘get it.’
“One, two,”
“No, no, no,”
“Three.” Hotch pulls him up, trying his very best to ignore Spencer’s pained scream.
He can’t ignore it.
For nearly thirty tense seconds, Spencer is gasping out, body determined (and failing) to breathe through the pain.
Swallowing, Hotch confesses, “Reid, we’ve got to start moving.”
“Can’t,”
“We have to,” Hotch insists, wrapping his subordinate’s shoulder around his own. “Use me as a crutch, okay? Don’t put any weight on your leg,”
Spencer replies with a pained groan.
“C’mon. We have to start moving,” Hotch takes the first step forward, and cringes when Spencer cries out. “Sorry, sorry,” He apologizes, but doesn’t stop moving.
“‘S fine, ‘m fine,” Spencer cries out, tone betraying his words.
The short walk is long and arduous, and with every step, Hotch is sure that Spencer is going to collapse. To the younger agent’s credit, he makes it nearly all of the way to the car.
The SUV is in sight, and Spencer’s sure that he’ll make it.
Unfortunately, the sheen layer of sweat over his pale face tells a different story.
Hotch is able to halfway catch him on the way down, and he manages to lower Spencer down a bit slower than what gravity wants to do. His heart skips a beat when Spencer’s eyes begin to flutter. They don’t close all of the way, but they’re not open by any sense of the word.
“Reid,” Hotch expresses, “Spencer, we’re so close, you need to stand back up.”
“Mmhm,” Spencer absentmindedly agrees.
“Reid.” He snaps, “You need to get back up.”
This time, Spencer’s eyes glide all of the way closed, face contorted in pain.
The blood drains from Hotch’s own face when he sees Spencer’s leg. The pseudo bandages are completely soaked with blood, giving off a slightly horrifying stench. The rag tied up below the wound is so dense with blood that it’s begun to slip down, defeating the entire point of tying it by the wound.
Hotch forces himself to slow down his breathing. “Shit. Reid? Reid?”
Spencer groans in response. “‘M sorry, ‘Otch,” He murmurs, before his head lolls back to his shoulders.
After letting out a few curses that he’s learned from his late dad that even Rossi would find impressive, Hotch makes a plan within seconds. He scoops up Spencer, frowning at the young man’s weight, before running as fast as he can back to the SUV. He awkwardly drapes the half-conscious man near the hood as Hotch fishes out the keys from his pocket, nearly dropping them in his panic.
Somehow, Hotch maneuvers Spencer’s lanky form into the back seat, managing to put half a seatbelt over his form so he doesn’t roll onto the car floor. “Hang on, Reid,” He instructs.
Although Spencer doesn’t quite understand, he still hears his name, and elegantly responds, “Hngg.”
Barely giving himself enough time to buckle up, Hotch turns on the sirens and speeds down the highway, foot nearly reaching the floor.
Once they reach the hospital, Hotch jumps out of the car in front of the doors, not giving a single damn about parking, and gathers up Spencer’s unconscious form in his arms.
The receptionist is greeted with terrified eyes. Before she can even say anything, Hotch barks out, “Where’s the ER?”
Stuttering over her words for a few moments, she quickly answers, “L-left! Go left!”
Hotch doesn’t need to be told twice, and instantly takes off through a set of double doors. The nurses running the kiosk jump out of their chairs, shouting out for a stretcher, taking Spencer’s limp body from him.
In a matter of seconds, Hotch is left standing in the ER waiting room alone, blood over his hands and arms. It takes him nearly a minute to shake himself out of it. Uncaring of the fact that he’s getting blood over his phone, he calls Rossi.
“Hotch,” Rossi greets, “You and Reid still at the crime scene?”
“Rossi,”
Even with the single word, the veteran profiler knows that something is wrong. “What happened?”
He cuts to the chase, “Reid’s in the hospital.”
“What?!” Hotch hears a bit of a scuffle before, “I’m on my way. Which hospital? What happened?”
Sighing, Hotch answers, “Miller was still at that damned scene. Reid and I went after him in the house, and he must’ve caught Reid by surprise,”
“And Miller?”
“Dead. Reid shot him in the chest.”
There’s a scoff on the other end before, “I guess we’re calling this ‘case closed’ then?”
Huffing, Hotch agrees, “I guess so. We’re at Wilson’s Hospital.”
“We’ll be there soon. How’s Reid?”
“Alive.” Hotch answers truthfully. “Miller stabbed him in the leg. They took him back immediately.”
Undeterred by Hotch’s choppy answer, Rossi soothes, “Kid’ll be alright. He’s gone through worse.”
Even though he can’t see it, Hotch nods and quietly replies, “That’s what I’m worried about.”
“We’ll be there in less than an hour,” Rossi informs him. “Just hang on. For the kid’s sake.”
“I will. See you,”
“Bye.”
Taking the phone away from his ear, Hotch frowns at the blood coating the screen. He probably should’ve thought of that before picking up his phone with bloody fingers. Nevertheless, Hotch slips it back in his pocket, deciding that it’s something he can deal with in the future.
Washing his hands and arms shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but by the time Hotch emerges from the men’s room, nearly twenty minutes have passed. Reid’s blood is still caked in and around his fingernails, no matter how hard he scrubbed.
The team arrives shortly after, all of their faces portraying their worries.
Morgan’s remark to, “Wrap him in bubble wrap next case,” eases a bit of the tension, but the matter of the fact was that their youngest agent was in surgery for at least the next hour.
But, as if to make up for his shitty luck, the surgeon comes out with a smile on his face. He quickly finds the BAU and informs them, “Everything went well. The knife was close to his femoral artery, but miraculously didn’t reach it.” Seeing Hotch’s pained face, he quickly adds, “It’s good you kept the knife in. Doctor Reid lost a fair amount of blood, and he could’ve bled out if the knife was removed. You did good, Agent.”
Ignoring the praise, Hotch quickly asks, “When can we see him?”
“He’s in post-op at the moment. After we move him, you’re welcome to sit with him as he wakes up,”
“How long?”
“Probably between thirty minutes and an hour. I’ll have a nurse come fetch you, if you’d like,”
Putting on his best smile, Rossi answers, “That would be great. Thank you.”
Two hours later finds the BAU huddled around Spencer, who makes a face when he wakes up.
“Why’re you all watching me?”
Emily’s the first to speak up, breaking the silence. “Curiosity,” She shrugs with a smile.
Still coming out of the anesthesia, Spencer accepts that as the truth and nods. “Oh. Okay.” He then scrunches up his face and looks down at the gown covering his leg. “I got stabbed, didn’t I?”
“And gave me one hell of a scare,” Hotch confirms. “Are you in pain?”
“Hmm. I don’t think so. Feel loopy though,” Eyes twinkling, he adds, “Like Froot Loops.”
With a chuckle, Morgan smiles, “Glad to hear it kid.”
“Did you know that Froot Loops don’t actually contain any fruit? And they’re all the same flavor.”
Morgan’s “Wait, really?” Is covered by Hotch’s, “Get some rest, Reid.”
“See, but Jell-O, Jell-O are different flavors.” He scrunches his brow before continuing, “Calling them ‘fruit’ flavors may be a bit far fetched, but at least the colors correspond to-”
“Kid?”
“Yeah?”
“Go to bed.”
“Mmhm. Can I have some Jell-O?” Spencer asks, eyes already closed.
By the time Morgan confirms, Spencer’s already back asleep, and Hotch has yet again narrowly avoided a heart attack.
It really is just another Tuesday, isn’t it?