Work Text:
Spencer had been quietly reading in the passenger seat as Derek tapped out a tune on the steering wheel. The roads were getting icy, and most weren’t daring to venture out, so their vehicle was the only one for a good few miles. It'd been nice to have some calm after spending the day listening to tearful stories of the victims. It was wrong to say aloud, but victims' families could be a lot to handle, especially when they were hostile due to the lack of answers they'd been given. Sometimes they needed a few moments of quiet whenever they could get them.
“How’re you holding up in the cold?” Derek asked, suddenly done with the peace they’d made for themselves.
“Just fine. The desert gets cold at night, too, you know.”
“Nothing compared to a Chicago winter.”
“As you keep saying, despite my reminders that in the same months, both cities can experience freezing temperatures.”
“You don’t get snow.”
“That doesn’t make it any warmer. We don’t have the climate necessary for consistent snowfall, but in higher altitudes of Nevada, it isn’t uncommon to see snow.”
“And how old were you when you first saw snow?” Derek asked smugly.
“I just said-”
“Ah-ah, how old were you?” Spencer glared at him.
“Ten. Monday, February 19th 1990, it saw the first snowfall of more than 1 inch since 1979 in Vegas,” he admitted in defeat. “But that still doesn’t prove your point. You can’t deny the fact that both cities experience the same temperature just because one experiences snow.” Derek gave him a self-satisfied look, taking joy in how easily he got the young man annoyed with him. “To conclude, I am fine.”
“I don’t know how you even survived growing up in Vegas in all those sweater vests you wear.”
“I didn’t dress like this for my entire life.”
“I imagine you did. I think of like a shrunk down version of you dressed in old man clothes.”
“That may be from your lack of information on my childhood.”
“You’re right. I should get Garcia to dig up your high school yearbook to gain a better understanding and formulate a more accurate hypothesis,” he said, mocking Spencer’s voice. He grabbed his phone and called Penelope, the dial tone playing through the speakers for less than a second before she picked up.
“You’ve reached the resident Tech Goddess, who dares disturb my lunch break?” she greeted.
“Garcia, I need you to look up Reid’s yearbook to prove a theory for me.”
“Don’t-”
Spencer’s sentence was lost in the upcoming moments.
First, a car appeared coming from the opposite direction. They both took notice of it as they spoke, but it wasn’t enough to break their back and forth.
Second, that car began to speed up.
Third, the car suddenly rammed into the side of their SUV, forcing them into a spin and skidding on the ice as it drove away as fast as it could without getting into an accident itself.
Derek gripped the wheel tightly as he tried to right them, whilst Spencer dropped his book and tried to brace himself between the car seat and the door. He shut his eyes and tried to calm himself by recalling the license plate of their attacker, but it was admittedly a little difficult to concentrate when inside a crashing vehicle. He heard Derek yelling at him to hold on, followed by a string of curses.
Their sudden stop came with the accompaniment of screeching metal, and they lurched forward, their seatbelts doing everything in their power to keep them in their seats so as not to go flying through the windshield. The airbag attempted to cushion the blow, but the force of their deployment had Derek out cold, unable to shield his knuckles when the windows shattered and glass shredded the exposed skin.
Spencer tentatively opened his eyes when he was sure they’d finally come to a stop and wouldn’t spontaneously start spinning out again. He could feel his heart pumping in his ears and numbly reached for his seatbelt buckle, trying to get his fingers to apply enough pressure to click himself free. He swallowed hard, noticing how hard he was panting, and slowly tore his eyes away from the tree that had parted the hood of the SUV to look at Derek.
“Morgan?” he called. His voice caught in his throat as it fought against his urge to gulp down oxygen as fast as possible. He reached out and shook the man’s shoulder, getting no response in the process. “Morgan!” If Derek were in any way conscious, he would’ve done something. Call him soft or slap at him like he was trying to hit snooze on an alarm, or offer comfort by saying he was doing just fine and that he’d walked off worse. Anything.
Nothing happened.
Spencer’s hand jumped to his pulse, and a sigh of relief left him when he felt it going strong. He leaned back in his seat for a moment as he let the past five minutes catch up to him before he filed this experience as ‘to feel later’ in his mind. He patted himself down, trying to find his phone, before the blood rushing in his ears quelled, and Penelope’s voice began to filter through, frantic and shrill. The speaker squeaked and squealed around her words.
“Help is almost there, so you better be alive to see it or I swear- I’ll- I’ll sell your books a-and your exercise equipment,” she threatened half-heartedly. She sounded like she was crying. “One of you, please, just talk to me!”
“I’m here,” he stated. “Morgan’s unconscious.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yes, he’s just unconscious. The airbag might’ve knocked him out,” he replied. The NHTSA estimated there were 238 deaths due to airbags between 1990 and 2002, although they still reduced fatalities considerably, especially when in combination with a seatbelt, which they’d thankfully both been wearing. He should definitely keep that fact to himself; otherwise, Penelope would need medical attention, too. “How long until the ambulance gets here?”
“Ten minutes.” That was quick, but he wasn’t sure how long they’d been spinning, if he’d lost consciousness between shutting his eyes and opening them, and how long they’d been sitting there before he realised Penelope was still there, forlornly waiting for a response.
“Garcia, I need you to run a license number for me.”
“Is this really the time to be doing that?”
“They’re responsible for running us off the road.” And he desperately needed something to do whilst he waited for medical professionals to assure him Derek would walk out of this accident the same way he walked into it.
“Fine, what am I looking for?” He gave her the plate and listened intently to the distorted sound of her tapping on the keyboard. She ummed and awwed as she went through records. “I’ve got a name and address. Jonathan Harlow lives in a shabby little apartment with… our first victim, whom he reported missing before she was found the next morning, which would be tragic had he not tried to take out my favourite brains and brawn duo.”
“Check for a criminal record. Joyriding, auto theft, and,” he paused for a second as a wave of nausea hit him, pushing the back of his hand against his lips as he breathed in through his nose. Nobody was a fan of vomiting, but if there was a long list of them, he’d be somewhere near the top. He knew all the gritty details that made vomiting a necessary evolutionary trait but he truly did not care. It was a nightmare, and he was trapped in one already.
“Reid?”
“Fine- I’m fine,” he gritted out. “And minor violent offences.”
“On it. Just sit tight for now, okay? You can go back to being a workaholic when they give you the all clear.”
When the ambulance came, Spencer was quick to direct their attention to Derek. One half of the pair gave him the once over to ensure he wasn’t playing the martyr card and agreed that he was the least injured before committing their attention to his partner. He shakily got out of the car, surveying the damaged hood and hoping that it wasn’t going to come out of his paycheck, then climbed into the back of the ambulance once they manoeuvred Derek onto a stretcher. He was mostly silent until prompted for answers as to how they crashed and what he could remember during it, deciding to tell them he just couldn’t recall it clearly, rather than saying he closed his eyes like a child trying to protect themselves from something scary. If he had a blanket, he would’ve hidden under it.
Derek began to wake up halfway to the hospital and seemed okay by the time they wheeled him into a room. Spencer slipped away into a waiting room after giving his name and began the waiting game. The journey had done nothing for his nausea; if anything, it made it worse. It hadn’t been particularly bumpy or jerky, but it had his stomach in knots either way. He just tried to keep breathing deeply and walking around the small space to keep himself busy. He forced himself to push away the panicked thoughts of being terrified to vomit and replace them with the case, then random statistics, whilst his brain kept flashing images of the initial impact on top of it all.
A nurse flittered in at one point, letting him know that he should also seek medical help, and he overstated the check done by the paramedic on scene to get out of it. He’d visit an ER if he had any real problems, and he wanted to be able to freely run off to a bathroom if he did end up losing his lunch rather than having to chuck up in a bowl by his bed. It wasn't like medical professionals would chastise him for doing so. It was simply the animalistic urge to be vulnerable far away from prying eyes. She followed up that Derek was conscious and they were going to take him for a few tests after he got some stitches to make sure he was good to go. He hummed along because nodding would make it worse.
Eventually, Aaron showed up to join him. He tried to give his account of the crash, knowing that witness testimony, even his own, would deteriorate the longer it wasn’t recorded, but Aaron put his hand up.
“You gave a plate, and he has a connection to the case,” he stated. “Don’t stress yourself with it. You’ve done better than most in this situation.”
Spencer nodded before he could stop himself and continued to pace. The nausea had invited its friends, weakness and a growing lightheadedness to the party, although he hadn’t been familiar with the newcomer of a full stomach. It must just be that his abdomen was aching from the seatbelt keeping him back, or his body reminding him of what he was going to empty if he didn't successfully repress his instincts to purge.
“How’s Morgan?”
“They’re running some tests. No doubt he’ll have a concussion or whiplash at the very least. There were lacerations on his knuckles, but not deep enough to impact his daily life, and he won't require physical therapy, although hand exercises as well as massages can be beneficial once the stitches are removed,” he replied, speaking quickly just in case he did need to run off to vomit.
He guessed it was the seatbelt keeping him in place and his lack of body fat to cushion the blow, but a throbbing pain was beginning to emanate from his abdomen that he couldn’t quite attribute to the nausea. He wrapped an arm around himself in a foolish attempt to ease it, noticing his stomach was swelling slightly. Again, he brushed it off. Injuries tended to swell. Even a hangnail could result in some swelling. He didn't think to connect it to his suddenly full stomach.
“Reid? Did you get checked out as well?” Aaron asked with the tone that said he already knew the answer was no, so there wasn’t any point in lying.
“Just sore, most likely minor seatbelt syndrome,” he answered. He felt his stomach contract like a warning call to stop whatever the hell he was doing and pour all of that energy into not being sick. It was bad enough on his own, but he truly couldn't vomit anywhere near his boss. He'd never live it down because he knew exactly what would happen. He'd be a crying, snotty, hysterical mess, and he'd rather choke on bile than go through that. “I think- I think I need to sit down?”
His knees took that thought as an immediate order and tried to give out from underneath him, giving him minimal time to crash down into one of the plastic seats. Aaron was beside him in one large step as he tried to slow down his descent, but Spencer fought against him as the urge to be sick got worse and worse. To his dismay, he could only manage a light shove. He increased his efforts when Aaron tried to pull his shirt up, but was about as successful as his previous attempts, and judging by the older’s expression, it was a good thing he wasn’t.
“I’m-” He couldn’t get out the last of his sentence when opening his mouth became a gamble.
“Seeing a doctor,” Aaron finished. “Can we get some help in here?” he shouted. A few nurses had gathered nearby, likely seeing a badge get flashed at one point and getting curious, and jumped into action without a second thought. “He’s just been in a collision. He’s lightheaded, weak and nauseated. His abdomen is bruised and swollen.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dr Spencer Reid.” She raised an eyebrow. “Not that type of doctor.”
“Better not be to not notice internal bleeding,” she muttered under her breath. She gave a few orders to the others before addressing Spencer. “Alright, Spencer, we’re going to take you down to imaging to find the source of the bleed and stick you with a few needles for your troubles. Is there anything I need to know about your history?”
“No narcotics, and he’s allergic to carbenicillin,” Aaron said on his behalf.
“And you are?”
“A very tired boss, with two agents in the hospital,” he deadpanned.
“Welcome to parenthood.”
“Been there.”
"That right?"
“I’m gonna be sick," Spencer whimpered.
“I wasn’t even flirting that time,” she huffed to herself, one of the team members who stayed with her tittering under their breath.
"You just had to one-up me, didn't you?" Derek greeted him when he woke up. His eyes were squinted, so Spencer assumed the airbag had given him a concussion, and the bright lights weren't helping any. Weren't they a pair? Some questions came to mind, and they stayed there. He couldn't be bothered to ask them. "And don't worry, you're all in one piece. You're just going to hate being awake for a while."
"Yay," he groaned.
"If it makes you feel any better, Garcia found your yearbook."
"Why would that make me feel better?"
"Oh, sorry, I mispoke. It makes me feel a whole lot better. You look like the Jonas brother they keep in the basement."
"I don't know who that is."