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The hospital smells just like any other hospital, incredibly strong disinfectant hand gel and elderly people.
The room you’d been rolled into was decked out in vertical blinds, a single uncomfortable-looking armchair in the corner and bedsheets that were more nylon than cotton. A painting of a lone sunflower hung on the wall next to a clock that ticked loudly each time the second hand moved, both of which you found distasteful. You’d been hooked up to enough liquid painkillers that the ugliness of the room didn’t bother you too much when you came around, only feeling slight annoyance.
Penelope had been there when you woke up the first time but you’d been too drugged up to do much other than sip from the juice box she held to your lips and fall back asleep. You woke up again a little while later and was able to croak out answers to Emily’s questions, she was satisfied with the information you were able to give her for paperwork. She stayed to clean sweat from your face. A nurse had given you a sponge bath but taking care of your skin with her expensive products was a small act of decency you greatly appreciated from Emily. Similar things happened each time you stir over the next few hours but the one person you desperately wanted to see wasn’t there. Even Rossi stopped by, thankfully he doesn’t say a word, just quietly keeps watch over you while you sleep. It’s comforting to have rotating guardian angels after all you’d gone through in however long you’d been taken hostage.
The drugs keep your dreams at bay for the most part. It’s the good kind of deep sleep until your unconscious brain gives the darkness some depth, shapes start forming and it starts looking like the darkness you were kept in. Your heart rate drops dramatically and in response your brain sends an electrical pulse to jump start it, in the process waking you with a lurch, jolting your injured limbs, in turn making you scream bloody murder. The pain emanating from your hip and shoulder is excruciating, multiple nurses come sprinting into the room, already talking to each other in coded language and calling for doctors.
The sudden movement and noise startles Garcia, who at that point had brought the chair to your bedside only to get pushed to the side. It barely registers that she leaves the room to make a call, you know that seeing a loved one like this must be distressing but at this moment you can’t bring yourself to care about Garcia’s feelings, only that you are in serious pain and need it to go away.
The hurt reminds you of how you got injured in the first place. The smell of antibacterial solution is replaced with mould and urine. Instead of a hospital mattress, you’re lying on a linoleum tile floor using the indentations on kitchen cabinets in an attempt to drag yourself away with your one good arm from the man standing above you. Remembering how it felt for him to drag you back into place and manoeuvre your limbs into position and for him to slam his entire body weight on top to dislocate your hip. You can still smell the puddle of your own vomit next to your head, but it’s mostly stomach acid since you’d been starved during your time in captivity. The unsub had left you on the kitchen floor, knowing that you were too weak and injured to escape, retreated to the equally-filthy living room to drink room-temperature cans of beer. Looking around and the only clock in your eyeline was the oven’s, but it hadn’t been set and only blinked between 01/01/2001 and 00:00, no use for even estimating how long you’d been there. Your sobs were disturbing to the unsub and he would shout at you to “shut the fuck up”. He threw his cans in your direction, dampening your clothes with the spray of beer. It did little to quiet you and enraged him in the process, scrambling to his feet, an action that sent you into hysterics and to the verge of hyperventilation. The unsub had barely risen, swaying slightly in his drunkenness, when the unmistakable crack of a wooden door breaking off its hinges entered the dingy room. Derek Morgan led the charge in your rescue, storming in and tackling the unsub to the ground. Spencer follows close behind but beelines towards you, smoothing your hair away from where it stuck to your face and whispering sweet nothings in an effort to calm you down before the space was cleared for paramedics to get sent in.
Garcia totters back in on her heels after the team of medical professionals have calmed you down, fixed you up and replaced your depleted bags of liquid painkillers and fluids.
“Reid is on his way over,” she says, pulling the chair back over to your bedside, taking your good hand in hers. The familiar jingle of her jewellery is comforting. “You would not believe the way he behaved after you were kidnapped, I’ve never seen him like that before.”
Garcia doesn’t elaborate and you wish she would, the idea that Spencer would act in any sort of way because of something to do with you tugged at your heartstrings. The corner of your mouth quirks up into a smile. She holds another juice box to your mouth and sweet, concentrated, fruity goodness slips past your tongue and down your throat.
Your body feels like it’s sinking into the bed again and your eyelids get droopy, telltale signs that the sedatives were kicking in. Thankfully you are able to escape your aching joints in your sleep. In your dream, a pair of large hands reach out and take a hold of your head, soft palms cradling your cheeks and long fingers combing your hair back, it coaxes you back to reality for a final time.
Dr Spencer Reid is perching on the edge of your bed, smiling at you. He has a slight five o’clock shadow across his upper lip and behind his glasses are darker bags under his eyes, more so than usual. Even when he’s tired he looks gorgeous, it’s infuriating and makes you feel just a little bit self-conscious.
“What took you so long?” Your voice is soft, a slight rasp to it.
“What took me so long? I had to bury that motherfucker for what he did to you.” Spencer’s tongue wets his plump lips. The sweet look on his face is a direct contradiction to his crude words, it’s not very often he resorts to swearing. “He attacked someone I care deeply about, I couldn’t walk away without knowing he will never see the light of day again. Stuck around gathering enough evidence no jury on the planet will even think about finding him innocent on any of the charges. I never want to come that close to losing you again, when we found you I wanted to kill him with my own hands. Hotch put some sense back into me before I had a chance. I still had to make sure you were safe before I could come see you.”
“I’m safe, I just needed you.” Your voice wavers and your bottom lip trembles. “I was so scared. And if you don't hug me right now I think I might fall apart.”
“Come here,” he says, scooting up the mattress, ushering you to lean forward to allow his arm behind your neck. You aren’t able to move around much, the slightest jostle to the right side of your body sends shooting pains through your joints. The hospital bed doesn’t have enough space for two adults to lie side by side so Spencer squeezes in and does his absolute best to work around your various cables, tubes, sheets and slings. You press your face into his chest and inhale deeply, Spencer resumes stroking your hair. He takes your good hand in his, bringing your knuckles to his lips and kissing each one before turning it over to kiss your palm and each of your fingertips.
“Never gonna let you go.”