"No, you cannot keep a sparrow. You can only hope that as they fly away, they take a little bit of you with them." –Emm Cole

o.O.o

For a moment, Spencer was unsure whether or not he was awake. The white-hot glare of the light above him all but blinded him. He quickly slammed his eyes shut and willed the pain to leave. Why did the sun have to be so bright?

His attention was drawn to a shuffling noise coming from his left. Was it danger? Weapon, he told himself. Find a weapon. He panicked when his arms refused to move. A weight landed softly on his immobile left arm. The predator had reached him. His breathing grew even more ragged. The slow burning sensation in his chest was quickly developing into a blazing inferno.

He wanted to cry as another weight landed on the top of his head, softly smoothing his hair.

Kill me quick, he pleaded mentally. Please.

And then another thought, scarier than any monster or possible brush with death he could be facing, hit him.

Where was—

"Reid, hey, you're okay."

Spencer knew that voice. Over the past three years, that voice had given him solid advice on profiling, berated him for making reckless decisions, and had held deep concern and respect, often disguised behind a firm tone but warm eyes. Mostly, though, that voice just sounded like solidarity and trust.

Spencer slowly turned his head to the side and pried his eyes open. He wasn't outside, lying paralyzed on the ground in the middle of nowhere like he had originally thought. He was lying in a hospital bed, which was arguably even less comfortable. Machines were whirring and beeping all around him. He felt the pinch of an oxygen monitor clipped to the end of his left index finger and the tubing of an oxygen cannula draped across his face. It made his nose itch.

"Hey, there." The man who had somehow become his father-figure, whispered. Spencer watched his bottom lip tremble. Were those tears in Hotch's eyes?

Spencer moved his mouth, forming Hotch's name, but there was no sound. He decided to blame it on his dehydrated tongue and not how tired he was feeling, despite sleeping for hours… Days? Weeks? He needed answers. He attempted what was a questioning expression and blinked at his boss.

"You had surgery four days ago and you've been sleeping since," Hotch explained. His voice was carefully void of emotion, but Spencer could read it—whatever it was— in his dark eyes and in his posture. His shoulders were hunched, his jaw was tight, and his hands were clenching and unclenching into fists. "The doctor ran tests, but nothing was showing. Dammit, Reid." Hotch gasped in a shaking breath and ran the palm of his hand over Spencer's head.

The simple gesture let him know that there was something drastically wrong. Hotch was being far too vulnerable now. Spencer felt his eyes water as he locked eyes with Hotch. I'm sorry.

Hotch patted his arm gently and said nothing. There was a silence between them that was neither comforting, nor unsettling. Spencer just laid there with the feather-like touch of Hotch's fingers brushing his arm and no recollection of the cause for his current situation. He was too tired to think too long on anything though, so Hotch chose that moment to press the large red button on the bedside remote. A nurse appeared moments later.

Kathryn introduced herself to Spencer and welcomed him back to the land of the living. He observed her, as she messed with the machines and intravenous lines draining into his arm. She was in her mid-forties, with a petite build, hair the color of honey, and eyes as blue as the Pacific Ocean that he remembered from the various times they had had cases on the west coast. He knew she was a mother, from the way she looked at him and talked with that soft, soothing tone; the tone he was sure she had used hundreds of times to ease her child's fears or pains or worries. He found it actually worked. By the time she left, with a promise to return in a couple of minutes with a cup of ice chips, Spencer was half asleep.

He looked to Hotch for affirmation that it would be all right if he just took a quick nap. His boss grinned, a rare sight indeed. It did not reach his eyes, Spencer noticed.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised. Spencer knew he meant it, so with a gentle squeeze to Hotch's firm hand, Spencer closed his eyes and slept.

o.O.o

Spencer slept for another ten hours, and when he finally woke it was due to the searing pain ripping through his skull and spreading to every last inch of his body. His brain, paralyzed by the pure agony, forgot to tell his lungs how to function. Spencer lay on the too firm mattress gasping and whimpering and weeping. The sounds of the machines now whirring erratically around him began to fade out, as did the rest of the room.

Spencer gaped, wide-eyed at the face that appeared above him. His panic rose as he recognized it as not Hotch. He wanted Hotch. He needed reassurance that he would be all right.

He got none of that.

He vaguely heard a deep voice shouting orders. The nasal cannula was replaced by a mask. Something was injected into the intravenous line inserted in the top of his hand. Someone kicked the brakes on the bottom of his bed, and then he was rolling down the hall, surrounded by strangers all wearing navy blue scrubs and concerned expressions. The small jolt caused from entering the elevator caused his head to bounce. The voices, panicked yet professional, drifted away as Spencer's vision was replaced by darkness.

o.O.o

He woke up again. The experience was harrowing and uncomfortable, much like the first time. Hotch was still there. He felt immensely relieved, even though he had had no doubt that Hotch would keep his promise.

The lights were dimmed now, but he still found himself squinting as he collected his bearings. There were still multiple IVs connected to him. A pulse oximeter was still clipped to his index finger. He had been transferred to the nasal cannula again. He prodded the wrapping around his head. That was definitely not there before.

Hotch gently pulled his prying fingers away from his head. Spencer didn't even try to fight him, so he let his arm fall back to the mattress none too gracefully.

"Hi." He was surprised at how weak he still sounded. He wasn't even sure if it qualified as a whisper.

"They missed some bleeding after your first surgery," Hotch told him. It certainly didn't sound like Hotch. "They've stopped it all this time."

Spencer didn't understand. What was he talking about? Surgery? On his head?

"Are you using?"

"I told you I wasn't!"

"Do not lie to me, Spencer."

He remembered.

The argument. The yelling. The guilt, but also the pride that refused to allow him to apologize and admit defeat. The changing of the green light to red. The screeching of the tires and the brakes as the SUV stopped suddenly. The eighteen wheeler that came out of nowhere.

His chest constricted.

"Where's Gideon?"

He felt nothing and everything at once. His hands were numb as they fisted the crisp bedsheets. He couldn't seem to break his gaze from where it rested on the tops of his feet that peeked out from the edge of the bed. His lungs worked in small sporadic bursts, not allowing him deep breaths, but still keeping him breathing. He was going to hyperventilate. Everything was warped. The walls and the floor seemed to melt together, changing from stark whites and muted blues to wild reds and oranges, but a dark border lingered at all times.

"Where's Gideon?" he asked again. The panic was impossible to hide.

He was shaking now, a full body rattle that hurt him more than he could imagine, but he couldn't stop. He felt Hotch grip his forearms, but the man said nothing. Spencer began to cry.

"Reid, Spencer, Gideon is dead."


Please don't kill me.

In my head, this is set sometime in the second half of season two, after Hankel but before the finale. I cannot guarantee consistent updates, but I vow to not abandon this.

Please leave a review and follow. It's going to be a wild, depressing ride.