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You rush through the hospital corridor, your wet shoes skidding on the drab green vinyl flooring. A nurse looks at you disapprovingly as you pass him, but you barely take note, finally coming to an abrupt stop in a waiting area strewn with outdated magazines and abandoned Styrofoam cups containing the dregs of terrible coffee, drunk only to keep shaking hands busy and weary minds alert. Facing you is your co-worker Derek Morgan, and to your immense relief, he is smiling.
“Hey,” he says, pulling you to him in a quick one-armed hug. “You look exhausted.”
“Thanks.” You pull back, taking in the lines around his eyes, more pronounced than usual. “You don’t exactly look like you got your recommended eight hours either.” You look around you at the various doors leading off the hall. “How is he?”
Derek laughs and shakes his head, used to you getting straight to the point. “He’s fine. Like I said on the phone, they got him out of surgery around 6, he woke up twenty minutes ago.” He motions to his right arm. “It looked worse than it was. No major damage.”
His words do little to lift the immense weight of guilt and worry on your shoulders, but still they are exceedingly welcome, and you hug him again. “Thank God.” You wipe surreptitiously at your eyes, not wanting him to see you cry. “What room?”
He tells you the room number, but as you pull away, he squeezes your bicep, amusement breaking through the expression on his tired face. “Just a warning. Your man’s off his face on painkillers.”
On a normal day you wouldn’t let that little comment slide, but then, on a normal day Spencer doesn’t get shot.
* * *
Before opening the door, you take a second to collect yourself. You’re in a state: running on the bare minimum of sleep for the past ten days, bone-tired after yesterday’s tactical operation got out of control, frustrated after having been kept at the police station all night to debrief. You’ve exchanged your bloodstained clothes for running tights and a hooded sweatshirt from your go-bag, but you’ve skipped a shower in order to get here sooner, and are now somewhat regretting that decision.
Taking a deep breath, you push the door handle, opening the door as quietly as possible. Despite expecting it, the sight of Spencer in a hospital bed knocks the wind out of you, and you clasp your hand to your mouth involuntarily.
He appears to be asleep again, so you tread lightly, scanning over every visible part of him as you sit down on the utilitarian plastic chair next to his bed: The bandage covering his upper right arm, the pulse oximeter clasped to his finger. He looks pale, but he looks okay, and your eyes fill with tears that you immediately try to blink back – you’re relieved, yet you’re worried. You know he’d hate being drugged up, and this is the second time in as many years of you two working together that this has happened; that he’s been shot, and you hate it, you wish you could protect him, keep him from ever being hurt again.
The first time – the leg – happened when you’d just joined the team, and you hadn’t known him that well. Because he was out of commission for months and you were not being deployed in the field much yet, you’d spent a lot of time together, working cases from the offices in Quantico. When he was mobile again, and you’d finally passed your field tests, you’d often been paired up together: his superior intelligence and extensive BAU experience a complementary match to your tactical skills and brawn.
Suddenly, Spencer stirs, and his eyes flutter open. He appears to have trouble focusing for a few seconds, but then a grin breaks out across his face.
“Hey,” he says, voice cracking a bit. “It’s you.”
You smile, and squeeze his hand, and don’t know what to do with your face, which is surely betraying you – so you busy yourself looking around for a cup of water to give him. “I couldn’t come earlier; Hotch wanted me there for the full debrief – I’m so sorry – I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“I feel great.” He grins again, taking the plastic cup from you, and swallows a sip of water. “I feel rested.”
A noise halfway between a laugh and a sob escapes you, and you sit back down, finally letting go of some of the crushing fear you’ve been carrying around for the last ten hours. “You scared me, Spence. Next time we’re going into a place like that, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
He stares up at you dreamily, and you again breathe a laugh: the finer points of tactical ops are clearly the farthest thing from his mind, and you should let it go for now. His hair’s matted on one side, and you run your hand through it, still needing to feel him, confirm he’s okay. His eyes drift shut at your touch.
“I asked Morgan –,“ he yawns, “I asked him to get you. And he did.”
His hand drifts to yours, closes over it, and your heartbeat feels fast and reedy. Of the two of you, you are the tactile one, and he is decidedly not – you can count on one hand, quite literally, the amount of times he’s hugged you or even clapped a hand on your shoulder. Your brain has embarrassingly catalogued these moments, against your own better judgement, and you’ve shoved this list away into the recesses of your mind, down with the other things you know it’s better for you not to think about.
You make an effort to pull yourself together. “Derek’s good like that. I’m here now, for as long as you want.”
He fixes you with a stare, and you suppose it’s the drugs, but he looks at ease, unguarded – heartbreakingly, it makes him look even younger than he is.
“You’re so pretty.” He says, and you half choke on the non-sequitur, letting out a laugh.
This seems to offend him, and he squeezes your hand in reprimand, frowning: “Why are you laughing?”
“I don’t get called pretty very often,” You say, truthfully, shaking your head, a grin on your face. “You caught me off guard.”
He considers this. “It’s probably because you look so serious all the time.”
You smile at him. “That must be it.”
He’s nodding, satisfied with his theory. “But I know. You’re not serious at all. But it’s good that they don’t see it. I like being the only one who makes you laugh.”
Your heart is brimming over with affection for this man, propped up in a hospital bed across from you, holding your hand. You’re too tired, too emotionally wrung out, too fucking relieved to push it down like you usually would. In the background, a machine beeps in a steady rhythm.
You bring his hand up slightly, press a kiss to his knuckles. “I think you’re drugged out of your mind, Spencer Reid. But for the record, you making me laugh is the best part of my day.” You exhale shakily. “You’re the best part of my day, pretty much all the time.”
“Oh, good.” he says, seriously, and you have to laugh once more.
He appears to be getting tired again, blinking in an effort to keep his eyes open, and he yawns. “When I wake up, I’m going to kiss you. After I’ve brushed my teeth.”
You press another kiss to his knuckles, torn between elation and apprehension, not sure if you should wish or fear that he’ll have forgotten this whole conversation once the drugs wear off. “If you still want to, after you wake up, I’ll kiss you back.”
The stern nurse from before walks in, motions with his chin for you to scram. Spencer’s eyes have closed, so you tuck the sheet around him, taking care not to disturb his bandage, his monitor. You should go home, to shower, to rest, but you know you won’t – you’ll be right here, folded up on the cramped waiting area sofa, not leaving until Spencer wakes up again, whatever that might bring.