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The industrial gray wall next to his infirmary bed was blank, except for the memory Spencer imposed on it. For the fifth time in twenty-four hours, he let his mind wander, and his eyes fix upon the surface of a wall where he could pretend, hung a labor of love from his godson. He could see it there, as brilliantly and vibrantly full of color and as beautiful as it had been when JJ showed it to him in the visitors' room. He blinked, and the drawing faded away into the drab wall and disappeared. Spencer bit down so hard on the inside of his mouth; he nearly drew blood. The pain kept back the tears that were a fatal weakness in prison.
His mind went against his will to thoughts of his godsons. The sudden realization that he might never have the chance to touch either of them again nearly overwhelmed his control over his emotions. He clenched both hands into fists and squeezed so hard pain flashed through his bruised ribs.
This was his punishment, to be condemned to live without the comfort of a hug from JJ or Henry, Morgan's embrace, and slap on the back. Maybe he'd be forced to live without Emily's hugs, or Rossi and Alvez's handshakes, and perhaps worst of all, a bear hug from Garcia, and the weight of Hank or Michael in his arms. Never again would either of them tug on his hair, or pull on his slacks when they wanted his attention. Maybe he'd never feel the warmth of his mother's arms around him, or feel her hair brushing his cheek when she kissed him.
Why? Why use germ phobia as an excuse to keep all he loved at bay. Studies proved that human beings thrived on touch. A hug or the touch of a hand on the back or arm improved mood. Premature babies needed the touch of their mothers and fathers to grow and develop outside the womb.
Here, he could expect the rough hands of the guards urging him to line up, move ahead, do his job in the laundry, and to keep the chow line moving. They touched because they had no choice. Worst of all was the unwanted touch of other inmates, their slapping hands and punching fists that demanded submission and respect, where none was earned or warranted.
He blinked his eyes again and the picture Henry drew resolved onto the gray, blank spot on the wall. He stared at it and tried to summon the feel of his godson's arm around his neck, or feel his hand as the boy had held on to him that sun-filled day at the park, but he couldn't remember the sensations. Black despair filled his gut with nausea, and he nearly vomited the last meal he'd eaten. He swallowed hard against the bile and closed his eyes.
If by some miracle, he regained his freedom in months instead of 25 to life, he'd never flinch away from a comforting hand, or the freely offered affection of his friend and family. He'd accept handshakes from strangers without excuse because freely given was something he'd never take for granted again.