Criminal Minds Fanfic

by spinner

In Your Room

1  2  3  4  5 

 "In your room, where time stands still, or moves at your will

will you let the morning come soon, or leave me lying here?

In your favorite darkness, your favorite half-light,

your favorite consciousness, your favorite slave."

--"In Your Room" - Depeche Mode

 1

Fighting past the ringing in my ears and disorientation of waking up in the dark in a strange place, I got to my feet and headed for the bathroom, at least in the general direction of where I thought the bathroom should be, if the layout of this hotel room was anything like the 467 other odd hotels I’ve stayed in over the last six years. 

I collided unexpectedly with another bed, and fell forward.  My hands grabbed the mattress, found a pair of muscular legs.  The legs yanked out of my grip.  I tumbled sideways and down between the two beds with no real room to fall. 

Someone caught me.  He pulled me upright again.   

“Oh God, it’s four in the morning.  Is this your usual wake-up time?”

He switched on the lamp.  It was the dark haired, dark eyed man.  Stern face.  He smelled familiar.  His arm was tentative on my waist.   His fingers in my hair were even more unsure.   He was here when I woke up earlier (yesterday?) I was furiously angry at him, but I couldn’t recall why.  I shuddered back from him, and he let go at once. 

Without giving an answer, I moved away from his side, out of reach, towards the bathroom again.  All I wanted at the moment was a shower and fresh clothes.  I felt rank and dirty, angry at having my personal space violated.  I was the kind of tired that goes clear through, although I know I’ve been sleeping for several hours, if not days.  I don’t know why my entire body ached. 

Once inside the bathroom, I turned on the shower and cautiously straightened back up.   I peeled off the top half of the hospital scrubs I was wearing (wondering why I was dressed this way), and I immediately encountered unfamiliar bruises and scraps.  My joints hurt, my knees and elbows, my hips especially.  Dried blood was caked under my fingernails.  My wrists had the impression of handcuffs on them.  There was a bite on my shoulder, and one on my left nipple.  Most of my face was a shade of blue and purple and black and yellow.  My throat had the distinct impression of hands bruised into the flesh as well.  Those were only the bruises first evident to the naked eye.

I was afraid to take off my pants, but I had to pee, so there was no choice, and I’d have to undress to take a shower, but I hadn’t thought this through entirely, because while I was peeing, I realized I hadn’t gotten clothes to wear when I got out of the shower.  There was a robe on the door.  I could put that on. 

Why would I expect there to be a bag of clothes out there, except that I know I wouldn’t have come to a case location without a go-bag, so there must be clothes out there in a black duffle bag: four pairs of slacks, four shirts, twelve different socks, assorted ties, six pairs of boxers, toiletry kit, stationery and envelopes to write to my mom, and sixteen paperback books. 

I needed to write to my mom.     She was bound to be worried. 

I was covered in bruises below the waist as well.  My thighs felt raw, inside and out.  The scariest thing of all was the echo of hands in the purple and blue marks, like angry ghosts whirling around my skin from the inside out.   What the hell had happened to me? 

I felt like the last time I let Morgan talk me into doing a three hours of physical training as opposed to classroom work for recertification.  He had taken me to the mat so often and so quickly that getting back up again was finally more humiliation than I could bear.   I decided to lie there and annoy him verbally instead. 

Derek’s face was above me in my thoughts, grinning down at me as he pinned me to the mat without effort.  His hands were positioned above my shoulders and he was sitting down on my thighs.  He was playful and joking.  Part of him enjoyed proving his physical dominance over me. 

“Pretty Boy, I own you.”

“You need to stop,” I told him.

“Why?” Morgan wondered.  

“You’re going to give me wood,” I admitted.  I wasn’t going to lie to him.

To my surprise, Morgan’s reaction had been a wicked grin.  He did not get up off me.  If anything, he leaned closer.  

“Is that why you won’t do hand-to-hand training?  Rough treatment turns you on?  Would it be better for Prentiss to handle your recertification?  I’ll ask her to wear high heels and tight leather?”

“Can you get the fuck off me?”

The dirty language had shocked Morgan more than the other admission. 

A different man’s face swam above me when I closed my eyes, one with hate-filled green eyes.  His hands were around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs. 

It wasn’t Morgan.  Where was Derek?  Who was the guy with green eyes? 

Logically I understood that there were very few ways to receive abrasions and contusions such as this except at the hands of another human being, proven of course by the tactile impression of those hands in the very bruises.  Waking up in an unfamiliar hotel room might lead me to believe I had had an assignation, but this kind of hurtful pain hadn’t been the result of an hour or two of rough sex.  It took a serious beating to wind up like this.  I had been attacked by a dangerous and angry person who had meant me serious if not fatal harm. 

The dark haired man tapped on the bathroom door. 

“Are you okay?”

The fear was as quick and powerful as a drug flooding my veins.  Is he the one who did this to me? 

No.  Not him.  No.  It was the man with green eyes, I thought, but I wasn’t sure.  I suppressed a cringe, and ignored his question, hoping he would give up and go back to sleep.

I climbed into the shower and stood under the streams of steaming hot water, letting it wash over my skin and through my hair.  I stared down at the drain, and watched blood and dirt wash off my body.  I wasn’t sure I would ever feel clean again.  I tipped my head back to rinse my encrusted hair.  The muscles in my legs felt watery, and my thin body became unsupportable.  I collided hard with the bottom of the tub.

I must have fallen.  I curled up where I had landed and put my head on the cold porcelain, hoping to wait out the spots swarming my vision.  My tailbone ached.  The chill of the tub felt good against my face.   

The bathroom door burst opened, and the shower curtain was yanked back.  The dark haired man stood by the bathtub, panting.  He wasn’t angry.  If anything, he was terrified. 

I flinched wildly, jerking away.  A fragment of fear tore through me, a remembrance or an imagining I wasn’t sure which, of being grabbed by violent hands, a threatening voice above me as fists struck me, hands held me down, my clothes were torn off, a heavy form rutting between my legs.  I cried out as much from the horror of the sense memory as from the pain of falling.    

I clutched desperately, thinking I could hold the pieces of memory in my mind, but they dripped away like the water running over me and down the drain.

In spite of the fact he was wearing boxers and a shirt, the dark haired man pushed through the streams of water and assessed my physical condition.  I fought back instinctively, raised my arms to push him away, balled up my fists and struck him.   He pushed these defenses aside too easily, coaxing me into the crook of one arm as his eyes surveyed my injuries.  My condition was a horrible surprise to him as well.   He seemed to be taking my pain personally.   

“Spencer, don’t fight.  Let me help.”

I stopped pushing him away, and closed my eyes, feeling light-headed and bone-weary.   If he was the one who had hurt me, if he had been the one, I wasn’t in any condition to struggle, and undoubtedly I shouldn’t.  If my injuries were what he would do if I did struggle, I should lie back and close my eyes and let he do as he pleased, because living was better than dying, and what was a few moments of indignity compared to having your skull smashed or your bones broken, being disfigured and choked to death?  Tears choked my raw throat and ran down my face. 

His gentleness surprised me.  It seemed to me that if this man meant to hurt me, if he was going to hurt me, he wouldn’t have cared if I was in pain, if I had hit my head.  He wouldn’t be so careful as he checked me over with eyes and hands, gingerly touching each of my injuries as he whispered to me, mindful that others might be sleeping yet close by.   

“Shhh.  I’m sorry.  So sorry.  Oh my god, I’m so sorry he hurt you.  I never dreamed he’d ever get near you.  I wanted…wanted to see if you made him feel the way you make me feel….if I was…if…..”

It was his voice that touched me more than his hands, how it cracked with true emotion. 

“I’d give anything to undo this.”

He hugged me too tightly to his chest, kissing my curled up fingers.  

“You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

He scolded me but not in anger.  He helped me stand up again.  Put his back to the wall and held me to his chest in order to tip me towards the running water, rinsing my hair until it ran clean.  He was left-handed, and this created a weird geometry to our movements. 

He retrieved a washcloth from the wall rack, wet it down, and cleaned my face with the careful touch of a father soothing a wounded toddler.  Then he washed and rinsed my entire body.   My hands rested on his shoulders as he bent to his task.  My nails dug into his skin, holding none too gently. 

I felt helpless and yet not concerned somehow.  The way he touched me wasn’t threatening.  It was careful and gentle.  Maybe he’d done this to me before.  Maybe he touched me all the time?  Maybe I belonged to him.  I had a sense that he owned me somehow, that I needed to obey him in whatever he asked of me.  He wouldn’t be touching me this way if I didn’t mean something to him. 

When he stood upright again, I hid my face against his neck and closed my eyes, holding onto him for support.  He took one of my clenched hands and stroked my fingers to clean them, putting the hand on his other shoulder. 

When he was done bathing me, we stood upright and swayed to and fro.  I realized he was rocking me as he held me under the streams of water.    

After a few minutes of peaceful quiet, only the sound of the water running over us, his arms around me, he whispered in my ear. 

“I’m going to take you back to bed now.  Is that all right?”

I was already fading back to sleep when he picked me up. 

2

I was lying down again.  I was dry, dressed in clean clothes that were near my size but broader.  I was drowning in warm blankets.  My hair felt dry.  A warm body was next to me in the bed.  I reached a hand over, and encountered a different touch.  It was not the dark haired man.  It was a younger man, a black man—a handsome face, a warm smile, deep brown eyes.  It’s Morgan.    

“Reid, you’re awake.  Hotch said you fainted in the shower.  He was worried you hit your head again.  Garcia?   Are you there?”

“Here, my love.”

The disembodied voice, anxious and female, sounded from the speaker on the phone in Morgan’s hand.

“He’s awake,” Derek sighed. 

“Thank goodness!  Put him on the phone.”

“I said he was awake.  I did not say he was coherent.  He’s blinking at me.  He looks confused.  What should I do?”

“Hold the phone closer to Spencer, that’s what.”

“Okay.”

“Reid?  Reid, if you can hear me, nod your head.”

I nodded once.  I must be Reid.  That felt right, having that name shouted at me quite often. 

Garcia.  If I closed my eyes, I saw a dark room with lots of monitors mounted like the various facets of a fly’s compound eyes.  Squishy toys littered her desk—small, colorful, bright things that made you smile.  I smelled chocolate chip cookies.  I remembered being hugged against a round woman dressed in violent pink.  She had a large, bright face with her blonde hair done up in buns and spikes.   

“He’s nodding,” Morgan answered for me. 

“Derek, is there enough light in the room to see by?”

“Yeah.  Sun’s up.”

“Take Spencer close to the light.  Watch his eyes.  Are his pupils dilating?” 

Morgan helped me up, walked me over to the glittering glass window, getting almost nose to nose with me to study my face.  I shuddered at the closeness and clenched my eyes tight, biting my mouth inward.  My reaction surprised him. 

“Sorry,” he whispered, pulling back a fraction.  I opened my eyes.  His brow smoothed out.   The sweats I was wearing were going to slide down too far.  I kept a hand on my waist, because my thin hip bones weren’t going to catch these.  Whose pants were these?  I kept my other arm up between us, keeping him at a distance. 

“Are his pupils dilating?” Garcia asked again pointedly. 

“Um…yes.”

“Evenly or unevenly?”

“Slightly uneven.  The right pupil is larger than the left, not by a lot, but enough.”

“Is he dizzy and having trouble keeping his balance?”

“Hotch said he fainted in the shower this morning.  He’s a bit shaky now.”

“Set him back down.”

Garcia continued asking questions as Morgan walked me back to the bed. I sat down awkwardly, wincing from the pressure in my lower back.  Derek reached a hand behind me and massaged where I had reached.  I jumped away from the touch, pushing his hands away, squeaking in pain.

“What was that?” Garcia asked. 

“I must have hit a sore spot,” Morgan explained. 

“Then quit it.  Is he having difficulty talking?  Slurred words?  Repeatedly asking the same questions?”

“He’s not talking at all, Baby Girl,” Derek said, seeking again to rub my back.  He started slower, fingertips only.  I jerked away again, smacking at the intruding hands.   Derek pulled back, surprised. 

“Is he having memory lapses or trouble telling what day it is?” Garcia asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he having headaches? Light-sensitivity?”

“I don’t know.  He’s not talking, Penelope,” Derek repeated. 

“Okay.  Physical examination time.  Did he hit his head in the initial attack?”

Morgan handed me the phone.  He kept one powerful hand on my shoulder, making sure I stayed put.  With the other, he used his fingers to part my hair at awkward angles, touching my scalp, rubbing my skull.  I tried not to tremble, tried to hold perfectly still.  It felt important not to let Derek see that I was afraid or upset.  But my shoulders were folding in around me like wounded wings.  I was shrinking in place where I sat.  I bit my mouth closed, but that didn’t stop the involuntary whimpers coming from deep in my chest. 

“What are you doing?  He sounds upset.  Are you hurting him?”

“He doesn’t want to be touched.”

“You can hardly blame him!”

“I’m touching him as little as possible.   Mariner must have cracked him in the head with something, or smacked his head against the wall?  The floor?  The side of the bed?  He’s got stitches about an inch above his ear on the right side.  More stitches near the middle in the back.”

“Derek, Spencer needs to go back to the hospital and be checked over more thoroughly.”

“He doesn’t like hospitals.”

“I understand, but the fact remains that he needs to be monitored for any other injuries that might not be immediately evident, like brain aneurisms or concussions.”

“To say nothing of ….”

“What?”

Morgan murmured, “Wounded pride.” His deep voice grew distant and soft.   I closed my eyes and leaned away from his hands.  “Reid, it’s me.  Don’t be scared.”

I was beyond scared, even though I knew logically that Derek would never hurt me.  I could trust him with my life.  I knew I could.  But I couldn’t stop shaking.  My body was reacting without my logical mind being able to intervene.  Something about him…masculine and powerful….he made me feel frightened even though I knew he was no danger to me.  The very maleness of him made me uneasy.  The smell and the touch of him terrified me to my core, made me unable to think.  All I could imagine was that if I didn’t stay alert, he was going to push me back onto the bed and hurt me. 

“Don’t be scared,” Derek repeated. 

He reached over to touch my hand.  I drew my legs up onto the bed, balled up on my other side away from him, clenching my eyes tight, wrapping my arms around myself. 

“Is he okay?” Penelope whispered. 

“No, he’s terrified of me.  That is not okay, Garcia.”

Penelope didn’t have anything to say.  Morgan was particularly quiet too for a few seconds. 

“Baby Girl, will you post my bail if I kill Mariner?” he asked, his voice tight in his throat.    

“Are you kidding me?  I get my hands on that pervy scumbag, and I’ll be right there beside you in the holding cell.”

“I’m on watch till Prentiss comes, so why don’t you tell me how can I help?  Tell me why Reid’s scared of me.  Tell me why he’s not talking.”

“If I had to guess, I’d say trauma-induced loss of speech and post-traumatic stress.  If you combine that with what is likely a concussion, he desperately needs to be under a doctor’s supervision.  Hint, hint, hint, Derek Morgan.  You need to pick him up and put him in a car and take him back to the hospital.  This freaking minute.”  

“I can’t.  Hotch would be mad at me,” Derek murmured. 

I lay in the bed and closed my eyes, holding still, willing myself not to shake.  I could feel Derek getting closer to me.  He pulled the covers up over my side, gingerly touched my head.  I shivered again, wondering where the dark haired man had gone.  I buried my nose down in the pillows, finding his scent there, finding comfort in the thought of how he had held me as I slept.  I hoped he would return soon.  Derek’s hand smoothed over my hair again.  I shuddered violently. 

“Stop whatever you’re doing, because if he makes that noise again, I’m gonna cry,” Garcia warned. 

“You and me both.  Why is he so scared of me?” Morgan sounded sad. 

“Is he going back to sleep?  Maybe you should keep him awake.  Don’t they always do that?  Keep people awake if they’ve hit their head?”

“No, he needs to rest,” Derek whispered, dropping his voice even further.   "Maybe if he gets some rest, he’ll be himself when he wakes up.”

3

“Who writes this crap?”

A woman’s voice awakened me next.  I wasn’t sure how much time had passed, only that I desperately needed to pee again, and I could hardly think with the pounding in my head.  I fought to sit up.  A woman leapt upward in surprise from the other bed, dropping a thick paperback novel to the floor.   She picked the novel up and put it on the table between the beds. 

She peeled back my covers and helped me upright.  Turned on a light.  Dark hair and deep brown eyes greeted me.  Her super-thick eyelashes reminded me of a doll’s eyes.  A worried smile colored her features with shadow and light.  I was wearing different clothes.  My own pajamas, I wondered. 

“You’re awake,” she whispered, taking both my hands and bringing my fingers to her mouth for a gentle kiss.  The touch of her hands and the feeling of her lips on my skin made me hot and cold both.  I shivered and thought about Indian take-out, thought about being naked and panting and totally under her control as she….he? I was sure I must be mistaken in the sense memory that came to mind, unless she was not a she.  I was sure what I remembered though—her above me as a cock slid in and out of me, filling me with the sweetest pain, making me shiver, making me want more.   Emmy?  My head hurt as I tried to reconcile what my mind had given to me.  She misread my shivers as fear, and let go of my hands even more gently than she had gathered them. 

“Are you hungry?  Are you thirsty?  What can I get you?”

I shook my head no, glancing back towards the bathroom. 

“You want Hotch?  He’ll be out in a second,” she said. 

“PRENTISS!  Is he awake?” The door opened and steam rolled out.  A fraction of light collided with the bathroom mirror.  I looked away from the light, my head aching.  She did not look away.  She was watching for all she was worth. 

“He certainly is now,” she replied.  She craned her head left and right, and her mouth pursed up, her fingers clutching mine again. 

“Emily.  Make him eat.  He hasn’t eaten. He needs to eat.  Something.  Anything.”

The bathroom door closed again.   It sounded like the dark haired man was there.  Emily.  Not Emmy.   Emily, she put her cheek against mine and whispered in my ear.  “Reid, you lucky bastard.”

I puzzled at the remark because I wasn’t feeling particularly lucky.   

Prentiss went to the circular table and rooted around inside a plastic bag.  She brought back a package of pre-cut and washed vegetables.  I wrinkled my nose at once at the prospect of how many undiluted germs and bacteria were roaming around inside that cellophane package. 

Emily put a small carrot in my hands.  I made a sour face and gave it back.  Her brows dipped together.

“Don’t be petulant.  Eat.”

I scooted back on the bed and crossed my feet under me, hiding my hands, staring at the bathroom and waiting. 

“Hotch!” Emily howled.  “He’s refusing to eat!”

The bathroom door cracked open again.  He poked his head out and stared right at me. 

“Spencer Reid, if you don’t eat, I’m putting you in a car, and I’m taking you back to the hospital the second I have my pants on.  Guys in white coats are going to tie you down, pump you full of IV fluids, and pain medication.  They might even want to hold you for further observation.  Is that what you want?”

Emily gave me the carrot.  I put it in my mouth and chewed unhappily.  It hurt so much to swallow.  My throat ached inside and out.  He watched me, and nodded his approval.

“Good boy,” Prentiss whispered.

“Jello would have been better.  Make him drink too,” Hotch called before closing the door once more. 

“Hotch, I’m not his mother!” Prentiss called out, annoyed. 

“He’ll listen to you,” echoed from inside the bathroom.  

“Only because I know where his soft spots are,” she mused, pulling my legs out straight and tugging me to the edge of the bed.  I smacked the hands away, and she jumped back, startled.  She recovered herself fast. 

“Hey, there will be none of that shit,” she warned me, shaking a finger in my face. 

Her anger was quickly forgotten though.  She sat down beside me, inching to my side so our hips touched.  She gave me more carrots to eat. 

“You know,” Emily whispered confidentially to me.  “It’s just my luck that the only time I’ve ever been alone in a hotel room with both of you, he’s in the shower touching himself, and you don’t want to be touched whatsoever.”

She gave me another carrot and hugged me carefully to her side, rubbing my ribs, rambling speech overflowing.  I chewed, swallowed dutifully, hating every last bite like poison. 

“You’re so thin.  You need more than jello and carrots.  I’m gonna tell JJ to smuggle pancakes back here for you.  Do you remember that time in… where was that… Charleston?  Atlanta?  That all-night diner.  Two in the morning, and the case is done, and you, Morgan, and Rossi decided you were hungry.  Rossi attacked a plate of lasagna that would have killed lesser mortals.  You and Morgan kept ordering pancakes. 

“You and Hotch were arguing about whether the use of a ball-point instead of a felt-tip pen meant anything as the murder weapon.   Would a number two pencil have been indicative of a desire to erase the crime?  Would a sharpie have meant the killer wanted the conclusion to be more permanent?  You two were so gleeful with your stupid humor. 

“You kept eating and eating.  I was sure you’d barf all that food up on the flight home, but no.  You curled up on the plane cushions like a skinny snake in a sweater vest with a big rat in your belly, smiling to yourself.  Morgan?  He was in absolute agony.  Moaned the whole way back to Virginia.”

I narrowed my eyes and tried to place what she was talking about.  I smelled bacon and black coffee and thought about knees against mine under the table, watching the dark-haired man talk and gesticulate with his hands, and how his foot slipped between mine under the table, and how the delicious feeling of his legs wrapped up with mine made me never want to leave that night, that moment, that memory. 

“Do you remember?” she asked hopefully as she hugged my waist and nuzzled the top of my head through my hair.  

“If he’s finished all the carrots, you should give him jello next.”

Prentiss leapt up at the sound of Hotch’s voice right next to us in the room.  I jolted as well.  He put a hand on my arm, soothing the fright away. 

“Jesus, Hotch!  You should warn people before you go into stealth mode,” Emily squealed.

Hotch.  That was the dark haired, dark eyed man. Pieces in my mind were falling into place.  The name fit him.   If only I could remember why I was mad at him.  How could I be mad at any man who looked that good in blue plaid pajamas? 

Gunfire erupted in my head.  In the distance I could see an anonymous silhouetted male target with lines.  I aimed.  I fired.  I missed.  I aimed.  I fired.  I missed.  Hotch was beside me, faintly amused and disgusted with my inability.  His disapproval stung like a whip.  I aimed.  I fired.  I missed.  I hung my head and hated myself. 

Hotch stood behind me, stretched himself around me, corrected my stance with a small kick between my feet, straightened my back and shoulders with a quick push from the hips and chest.  He curled his hands around mine and aimed.  He held my arms still.  We fired.  We struck the target dead center.  I felt him smile.  He aimed again, held me firmly in place, squeezed the trigger over my finger to fire, and we struck again, again, again.    

I shook the sense memory from my head. 

“Thanks for waiting, Prentiss.  I needed a shower.  I’ve got it from here though.  You can go now.”

I knew at once that he wasn’t happy that she had been sitting next to me, holding my waist, whispering in my ear, nuzzling me.  His jealousy was more than evident.  She was intruding.  She was touching what belonged to him.  What’s more, she knew it annoyed him and was doing it anyway. 

“Consider me gone,” Emily said.  He waited, watching her touch me.  She caressed the tip of my nose with a crooked finger.  I tensed.  He growled at her.  He actually growled.

“Prentiss.”

Emily headed for the door. 

“He should drink at least three bottles of liquid while he’s awake,” Hotch thought aloud. 

“You better help him pee first if you’re planning on making him drink that much,” Prentiss taunted Hotch on the way to the door.  He went behind Emily, locking the room up tight. 

I headed towards the bathroom, but paused and leaned on the wall as Hotch put a hand on my arm, caressed my elbow. 

“Do you need help?”

I shook my head no, staring at his bare feet. 

“Leave the door unlocked in case you fall, okay?”

I nodded. 

Inside the bathroom, his clothes were strewn everywhere.  Wet towels were on the floor.  There was the fresh smell of soap and shampoo in the shower.  The clothes on the floor reeked of outside and heat and dirt and a familiar scent that I knew at once was a mix of grave stench and Hotch. 

I pulled off the long sleeved pajama top I was wearing, and picked up his tee-shirt, pulling the thin material onto my skin and loving the security that coursed through me at the feeling of his clothes on my body.  

Why was I mad at Hotch?  For the life of me, I couldn’t remember. 

4

“Shh.  It’s okay.  Shhh.”

My head was pounding.  I struggled with the arms that were going around me.  I screamed and screamed and couldn’t stop shaking.  I screamed again until my voice was gone.

He wanted to kill me.  The man with green eyes.  He wanted me dead. 

A light blinked on then off again as quickly.  I heard cursing.  The light came on a second time and stayed on.  It was storming outside, thunder and rain.  Had I heard the storm in my sleep?

Dark eyes greeted me, nose to nose.  A big hand cupped my face.  A cheek brushed mine. 

Hotch repeated softly, “It’s okay.”

He lifted me as easily as a child, cradled me against his chest, carried me three steps back to his bed, nestled me under his covers.  He turned the lights out again.  Climbed under the covers with me, spooning against my back.  Held me close.   

“Shh,” he murmured, drawing me to his chest and putting an arm around me.  Brushed away tears.  Dotted kisses on my nose.   “Shh….Jack…it’s okay.  Go back to sleep.”

Jack?  I thought my name was Spencer. 

“Spencer,” Hotch whispered in echo to the question in my thoughts.  He chuckled softly at his mistake.  I turned over and huddled against his broad chest and tried to block the sound of the storm raging outside and in my mind too.  I didn’t care what he called me, as long as he never left me alone again.

“Why are you shaking?  I won’t let anyone hurt you, never again.  I promise.  You trust me.  Hmm?  Don’t you?”

I decided that I did.  I decided that Hotch must have been the one who had stopped the green-eyed man from killing me.  I could trust him.   

I don’t know how long we lay in the darkness listening to the storm, his arms curled protectively around me, his hand tracing my back, his lips touching my ear.  Once my fears had subsided, I uncoiled from my crouched position, stretching out sore limbs and stiff muscles. 

I must have reawakened him.  He mumbled quietly and moved his head.  My joints crackled, fingers and toes popped.  After extending every limb to the end of the end, I was done stretching and could relax once more.

He rolled onto his back and watched me finish stretching.  Perhaps he expected me to return to my own bed?  Instead, I burrowed close to him again, found a comfortable place at his side, put my face against his chest, wrapped an arm around his waist.  I could feel him smiling.  His arms wound back around me. 

“JJ will be here at six.  I’ll wake you then.”

5

JJ arrived, bearing pancakes in two big white foam containers.  I knew her at once.  Motherly warmth filled her kind face as angel blue eyes glued on me.  She began to pet me and touch me and talk softly to me.  Birthday cake.  I remembered birthday cake and a silly hat with candles on the top.  I did not flinch when she hugged me, and ate because it made her happy.  I could not bear the idea of disappointing her in any way. 

“How is he today?” JJ asked Hotch, standing behind me at the round table and touching my hair.  “Still not talking?”

“Better, but not talking,” Hotch confirmed.  He was packing up both our go-bags, searching around the room for items that might have fallen out.  “His eyes look more clear.  He’s focusing better, I think.  He seems better.”

Hotch was looking for JJ’s support or approval.  Whatever he was looking for, she disappointed him by going right for the obvious problem. 

“Why isn’t he talking?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch sighed, shoulders dropping.  “Garcia told Morgan something about trauma-induced loss of speech not being uncommon.  That might be true, or it might be because of the concussion, or it might be because he’s mad and he doesn’t want to talk to us.  I don’t know.”

“Garcia said you should take him back to the hospital, should have taken him back from the get-go.”

“I’m not taking Spencer back to any hospital that would let a man in his condition walk out of their doors in the first place,” Hotch replied angrily. 

“Okay,” JJ answered calmly, deciding she wouldn’t point out the stupidity of that statement altogether.  For my part, I was struggling to recall ever being at the hospital.  I had vague memory of driving, cars flying past quickly on either side, sirens blazing over my head. 

I squinted hard, squeezed a hand together, snapping a piece of plastic cutlery in half.  Hotch and JJ both stared at me suddenly. 

“What’s your plan?”  JJ asked, putting another fork in my grip after taking away the broken one.

“The rest of you take the plane and fly back to Washington.  I’m going to drive Reid home.  Garcia said it would be better if he didn’t fly,” Hotch replied. 

“You sure you don’t want Emily or me to drive back with you both?  We could switch out driving?”

“No.”

“Hotch, you can’t drive three days straight.”

“JJ, take the plane.  Fly back.  Scout out our next case.  I’ll drive Reid home, get him settled, get him checked by the Bureau doctors to make sure he’s going to be okay.  Strauss has already been on me about Reid having to pass a physical and psychological exam in order to return to duty.  The longer the drive back, the more time he’ll have to pull himself together, with any luck.”

“Is this your idea of penance?” JJ asked, her voice growing sharper.  

“What?” Hotch stood up straight and glared at her.  I listened to them argue, thinking of a different man with dark hair, a different woman with blonde hair.  My parents? 

“You can’t keep punishing yourself, Hotch.  It’s not your fault, what happened with Mariner.”

“No?” Hotch growled, crossing his arms over his chest.  “Really?  Whose fault is it?  I’m the one who made Reid go in there, unprepared for who and what he was dealing with.   I’m the one who…”

“It’s no one’s fault.”

“I knew how dangerous Mariner was.  It was a mistake to let him near Spencer.”

“It was a mistake, but this is not your fault.”

“Driving Reid home is not about penance.  It’s about making sure Reid gets home safe and sound, and making sure he’s going to be okay.  He’s a member of my team.  He is my responsibility.”

I wondered if every member of his team could count on being cradled against Hotch’s chest when they had nightmares, being rocked and soothed and nuzzled.  I gave him a questioning look and a small smile, and he avoided my gaze for once.   

“We shouldn’t be arguing in front of him,” Hotch added, quieting his voice because I was watching him intently.  JJ touched my chin, spoke right to me.

“Spence, tell Hotch he’s being an idiot.”

I gave her a tired half smile.  She winked at me, and turned her attention back to Hotch. 

“Promise me you’ll stop every night.  Do not try to drive straight through.  I don’t want you pulling in front of a semi because you’re half asleep,” she begged Hotch.

“JJ, don’t argue.  Just do as I say.”

“Stubborn…arrogant….,” JJ whispered, bending down and kissing my bruised crown.  What was it about me that inspired everyone to want to stroke my hair and to kiss me on top of the head?  “Spence, you behave.  I’ll see you in a week.  Don’t let Hotch drive straight through.  Take his keys away.  Make him stop every night.  I want you both home safe and sound.”

“Is the team headed for Wichita to fly out?” Hotch interrupted. 

“At least let Spencer finish eating.  He’s almost done.”

“We need to go.   And will you stop treating him like that?  He’s not five.”

“I’m not…”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m just…”

“Smothering him to death.  We love you too, Mom.  Now go.”

“I know Spencer loves me, because he ate his breakfast.  You, however, I am not so sure about,” JJ sassed from a safe distance as she headed towards the door and was gone.  

We were alone again, Hotch and me.  He was carrying both black duffle bags, staring at me expectantly.  I stood up slowly and put my empty food container in the garbage.  I looked at the second container of food and back at him. 

“Are you ready?” he asked. 

I nodded, staring at his shoes.  I really wanted to brush my teeth, but I wasn’t going to press the issue.  He was determined to get on the road, and I didn’t want to stand in his way. 

“Bring that.  I’ll eat and drive,” he ordered, indicating the rest of the food.   I obeyed him at once.

more to come

main cm index