Brownie: hey all, it's me. I decided to go in a different direction. This idea came to me when I was searching NCIS fics. Don't worry to all of you who are reading Band Camp, I'm still working on that one, but maybe a little more slowly, if that's possible. This will be a Criminal Minds and NCIS crossover. There will definitely be some weird parings, thanks to monkey-
Monkey: hi! ;)
Brownie: that I will try to make work, but no promises. This is sort of my pilot for this fandom, so please bear with me.
Monkey: if she screws it up, she'll just blame me anyway.
Brownie: I might change the parings I had in mind, so send me feedback on what you want to see. No promises, though. Anyway, on with the angst!
What it takes to live
Time stood still. I felt like I was being suffocated. I couldn't hear anything, not the doctor's grim report, not my friends' tears and pain filled questions, not even my own heartbeat. I especially didn't want to hear that damned heart beat. That damned heart that is making me feel this way.
I get up and leave the room, unconscious of the others' protests. This can't be happening. This isn't happening. He's always been there, he always will be there. He can't die. He just can't. Not before I've had a chance to talk to him, to tell him that I-
The hospital is too clean, too quiet. It's oppressive, and I feel like I'm suffocating again. I make my way down to the lobby and keep going. I have to get out of there. Vaguely, I hear someone call my name, but I keep going. I can't stay there, not right now.
I run, not caring where I'm going, just running, trying to outdistance reality. Trying to outrun my thoughts, my emotions. This isn't happening. The scenery around me is a blur. I notice that there are trees, lots of trees. A park.
I keep running 'till I collapse and fall onto a nearby bench. Gasping for breath, I rest my head on my hands. This isn't real. It can't be. I just have to keep repeating that and everything will be alright. But deep down, I know that nothing can make this right.
My phone rings and I look up. I barely register that it's dark out. I don't know how long I sat in that park, thinking.
My phone rings again and I pull it out to look at the caller id. Hotch. I don't want to talk to him right now. I know what he'll say. He'll ask questions that I can't answer, not without losing my job. The phone rings a third time and goes to voicemail. I don't check to see if he's left a message. What's the point?
I get up and walk towards the direction of the hospital. I'm not going back, just getting near enough to a road to catch a cab. I can't go back. I can't stand to be there, seeing everyone's questioning faces, seeing him like that, seeing, knowing that- I just can't do it.
My phone rings again and I sigh. I should have turned it off after Hotch called. I glance at the caller id and see Garcia's name. She knows. Of course she knows, she knew before I even realized what was going on. I could talk to her, she'd understand. But somehow, I just couldn't do it. Hearing the worry in her voice that she would so carefully try to hide, hearing the false assurances, the false comforts, would all just be too much.
I reach the road and look around. The hospital is across the street, a looming reminder of why I'm standing at the edge of a park at 2: 18 in the morning. I call the cab company and they say that someone will be there in 5 to 10 minutes. I thank them and hang up. I can't take my eyes off the hospital. It sits there in the darkness, a cold reminder of just how much one person can lose in a matter of seconds.
The cab pulls up and I step in. I give the driver my address and settle back against the seat. Unfortunately for me, he seems to be in a talkative mood.
"Just get released?" he asks, looking at me through the mirror.
"No." Perhaps if I seem non-conversational he'll stop.
"Friend of yours in there?" No such luck, it seems.
"I guess you could say that." I don't care if I'm being rude. I just want to get home.
"You guess? Either you're friends there or not, there's no guessing about it." He looks at me funny and I glance at the paper on the back of the seat and read his name. Tony. Damn nosy Italian.
"Yes, one of my friends is in the hospital." I snap.
"What for?" Damn it, doesn't he have a sense of respect for other people's privacy? "Hey, you gonna answer?" Apparently not.
"He was shot." I reply, my voice even, yet hollow and dead.
"Ouch. He gonna be ok?"
"I don't know." My voice is soft.
"Then why aren't you there with him?" Tony looks at me, surprise evident on his face.
"Our other friends are there."
"But why aren't you there?" I have no response to that, so he keeps talking. "If it were me, I want to be there, just in case, you know? If my friend died and I wasn't there, even though I could've been, I'd never forgive myself."
"I just can't-" My voice is shaking.
"Can't stand to be there?" he finishes. "That's a little selfish, don't you think?"
How can I respond to that? I sit there, thinking. What if Tony right? Could I live with myself if he died? Could I stand the guilt of knowing that when things get bad, I would rather run than face them? Could I live my life knowing that I'm a coward?
"Turn around. Go back to the hospital." I tell him. I will not be a coward. Tony gives me a small smile and does as directed.
I pay Tony and get out of the car. I walk up to the front of the building and freeze up. Damn it, this shouldn't be this hard. A car honks behind me and I turn to see Tony waving me inside. I wave back and somehow that gives me the courage I need to go back into that building.
I walk to the elevators and hit the up button. It seems to take forever for the lift to get there. I step inside and push the button for the second floor. There's no one else in the elevator. All too soon the doors were opening and I was stepping out onto the floor. It's amazing how we can anticipate and dread something at the same time.
I don't want to face them, but I know I have to. They'll all be there, there's no way they left. Not like me. Not like cowards. I step into the waiting room and look around. The team is standing in the corner. They haven't noticed me yet, but it's only a matter of time.
I walk over and sit down. J.J puts a comforting arm around my shoulders. She understands, but I'm not sure if the others will. All that's left to do now is to wait. The minutes creep by slowly, as if life in ICU is in stasis. No one talks. We're all too afraid to voice what going on in our heads, because no matter how hard we try, our minds won't shut down, and all we can do is play it over and over again until nothing makes sense anymore. As profilers, we know that victims, survivors, family members drive themselves crazy trying to figure out the why's behind it all, but it's one thing to know it, and another thing entirely to experience it. No matter how hard you try, you can't stop thinking about it, about what happened, about what should have happened, about what you've said, and worse, what you haven't said, and knowing that you might never get a chance to say it. Knowing now, that lies of omission are the worst you can tell.
And suddenly, Hotch is standing and the doctors are there and everyone is standing and demanding answers. The doctor waves all of our questions away and waits for us to calm down enough so that he can deliver his news.
"The surgery was a success." He begins, and I start breathing again. Five words and everything is right again, "But there were some complications." Oh God, why? Haven't you put us through enough?
"What sort of complications?" Emily asks, her voice raw from lack of use and unshed tears.
"We lost him a couple times during the surgery. We were able to revive him, but he's slipped into a coma. We can't know for sure when, and if, he'll awake." A coma? No, that's not possible. He won't do that; he won't give up on us, not after everything this team has been through. He won't. He can't.
The doctor is talking again, "His injuries should heal without a problem, and we have faith that with time he will wake up. Time heals most wounds better than any medication. Would you like to see him?" There is a chorus of yeses and the doctor leads us down the hall to and observation window, and there he is, lying on the bed, the only indicators of life the constant beeping of the machines.
"Oh, Derek." Emily sighs, tears threatening to fall.
No one else speaks. The doctor comes back after a time and informs us that we need to leave. J.J takes my arm and says, "Come on, Spence. There's nothing we can do for him now." But now that I'm here I don't want to leave. The doctor said that time could make this right, but deep down, I know that nothing can make this right.
brownie: Yes? No?
monkey: any kind of feedback would be nice, really.
brownie: review, and i might put the next chapter up sooner.
brownie & monkey: see ya!