So this is something new I'm trying. I've never written in first-person before, especially from Aaron's point of view, so I apologize for any character inconsistencies. I wanted this piece to be very personal and dream-like and I hope you all will enjoy it!

Take my advice.

Don't let the fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark in the hopeless swaps of the not-quite, the not-yet, and the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved and have never been able to grasp hold of. The world you desire can be won. It exists.

It's real.

It is possible.

It's yours to take if you want.

But don't let it slip through your fingers.

Because that's what I did.

That's what I'm realizing as I sit here on the bitter pavement, praying to God that someone will pick me up, that someone will guide me into the light or set fire to this nightmare and burn it into oblivion.

That I'll wake up and I'll look into familiar hazel eyes that glint a golden hue when tipped to the sunlight, that I'll touch the place where his lips should be, and that I'll smile because mornings are always playful for us.

Were always playful.

The mind is a fascinating instrument; its ability to pull thousands of strands of memories in a single second draws my lip into a snarl and causes my eyes to water because it should Spence telling me this information. It shouldn't be Spence in the memories.

We all told him it would be one time too many that he walked into a hostage situation with only his words as a replacement to the chilly Glock strapped into its holster at my ankle.

Ironic how twenty-seven words were lost to the wind before Spence took that blow to the head instead of firing a twenty-seven numbered gun.

My vision clouds momentarily and as I pull my hands from my face, lonely tears pool in my blue palms like a frosted broth.

I'm a million miles away and all I think is It should have been me. It shouldn't be me out here, sitting under the stars in the calm and still night, while my calm and still lover lays….in there.

Spencer had been eerily motionless….just lying there…until they lifted him from the ground, careful not to jostle him, and packed him into the ambulance.

Me?

I just stood there. I stood there and wondered if this was what it was like. Letting love slip between your fingers because you hadn't been sure of making it real. Making him your husband.

Because I had played the not-quite, the not-yet and the not-at-all cards.

Laid them out like a goddamn royal flush.

It's the swoosh of the hospital sliding doors that flood my ears and the hands caressing my stiff shoulders that make me wonder whether it was all worth it in the end. The job. The high-powered career. The adrenaline of justice pumping through my veins at an awesome volume each and every day. The death of my ex-wife and the moments where my son looks to me with his wide and blue eyes, asking where Mommy is.

The subsequent role of Daddy becoming a distant sort of haze in the back of his mind, I'm sure.

"Aaron, the doctor is asking to speak with you." It's a voice I recognize but it is just noise. White sound that blurs my vision and my feet lift from the ice on the ground and suddenly I'm inside.

I'm inside the waiting room and I see my team slumped in chairs and I want to laugh because it's like a mirror.

It's like Emily again.

Doctor Driscoll is mechanical yet I find myself softening as his words take affect and I've heard it all before. The patient should make a full recovery; the patient has been put under the influence of painkillers and the patient should wake up shortly.

He's polished and precise and my brow creases as I wonder whether I'm like that. Whether I'm that...methodical.

"I'd like to see him now." No wavers or trembles in my voice and my armor clicks into place, piece by piece until I'm drawn to my full height, behind the weight of the words FBI emblazoned on my Kevlar.

The room is to my left and it's Dave to nods to me, who gives me dark and understanding eyes, who knows my relationship with Spence, to who tells me to go ahead without them.

The team will understand.

And God, he's small when I reach him.

Fragile beneath the stark snow-white sheets of his bed.

My breath catches in my throat and suddenly it's difficult to breath and tears spring to my eyes and I'm latching onto the doorframe and my right ear is ringing with all the intent on bringing me to my knees so that I may know the pain and suffering that my lover has endured.

It's magnetic and I crave the raw feeling that comes when I dig my nails into my already frozen palms. It's a punishment and my eyes blaze with a chilly wetness as my gaze lowers to Spencer.

So small. So fragile.

Alone.

He's untouchable, like a distant diamond sky, and I find myself with my arms outstretched regardless.

His hair is amber and his lips are tinged a tongue pink and he's all that I remember from the other night when I carefully laid him out beneath my panting body, the moans fresh in my ears.

"I'm here, honey," I murmur, smoothing my fingers over his forehead again and again and gently rubbing small circles over his knuckles in a futile attempt to wake him from his slumber.

Fawn eyelashes flutter and I draw back my hands because I'm afraid if I squeeze too hard I'll break him.

"Spence, I'm here. It's okay, you're safe." The words are a mess and I'm a mess because this feeling is all too new and I don't have the bureau's fraternization policies to cower behind. We're exposed and my heart is uncritically open to him like a navy ocean to a midnight sky.

I keep my tone soft, the concern creeping through and my armor dissolves as Spencer's eyes open.

They glow under unforgiving lights and they no longer hold the haunted hollowness that was present, as he had walked into the house earlier.

A small tongue laps at chapped lips and I feel almost broken with the urge to press my own lips to his but we can't and I can't.

"Spence?" I whisper, hoarse.

Look at me.

My lover looks at me finally and it's not the weight of emotion and reassurance that I expect to see flood his features. It's not exhaustion or even relief that I'm here. It's not a wealth of love or a twinkling of remembrance and it's not the pouring of tears and the squeak of insecurity and it's not the small smirk of irony at the realization that we're back to where we began with the Anthrax.

It's a barren look.

It's empty and most of all it's uncertain.

It's a mystified expression that doesn't have a place on SSA Dr. Spencer Reid's face.

"Who are you?"

To be continued if you would like.

Please review and let me know what you think about Hotch's point of view!