Spencer was running how fast he was able to, with a wound in his knee, caused by the incident of the crashing FBI jet. It was over two years ago, but his patella never healed properly because he was always on bis trip to wherever he did not know.
And often his patella made it difficult for him to escape from those infected people, like right at this moment when they were after him and Reid was running, searching for a secure way out. But he struggled intensely and faltered, falling from a root that passed through the surface of the forest's ground.
He heard the murmurs and howls of the Infected and rolled over, coughing by the instant pain in his knee, the Colt revolver heavy in his hands.
Bang- bang, bang- bang- bang, bang, bang.
Four of the five Infected lay on rotten and bloody leafs and earth. Spencer tried to shoot another time, but only a small 'click'-sound could never kill one of them. What killed the last thing standing was an arrow, shot in a steep ankle from somewhere between the leafs above.
Reid leaped up and spinned around, while a shadow jumped off the tree's crown and landed in front of him. Out of a common reflex the young man pulled up his Colt, staring at the dirty man in front of him who held a crossbow. Was he smirking? A strand of Spencer's brown waves slided into his sight and he shook his head towards the opposite direction so that he could observe every move the foreigner made.
Slowly he pushed up a hand as if he wanted to show he was not dangerous and it worked -Spencer loosened the grip on his worthless Colt, but he was still tensed, felt a little fear of this man, this dirty, of course very skilled archer with suspicious dark eyes which were part-time hidden under his messy brown hair and on which Spencer got a rather long and intense glimpse.
Then the foreigner spoke in a rough tone and a deep crumbling voice: "You bleed, kid. Your knee is sore and needs some rest." The calm manner in which the man spoke had Spencer thinking he wouldn't harm the agent, but he was not sure, he couldn't be sure, never, since Tobias Hankel. He lowered his Colt and took a slight breath, his knee shivering. It was hard to stand when the adrenalin started to undergo degradation. "See, you don't need that Colt.." alarmed Spencer held up the weapon again, although he had no munition left.
"It's useless, huh?" The man bypassed the distance and dragged the arrow out of the Infected's forehead. Spencer stood and stared the whole time it took the other man doing that, and out of a sudden his stomach growled -he hadn't eaten for days. The man turned around and looked at Spencer, taking out a small bag and giving it to Spencer. As he did not will to grab it, the man grumbled: "If you don't eat it I will. My name is Daryl."
Did he think telling Spencer his name would change anything? He already thought of him as a human, so he did with the Infected. Hesitating Reid grabbed the bag some moments later, opened it to find a hare he probably had hunted few hours ago.
"It's yours, I can't take it from you."
"I offered it to you."
"Still it is yours.", came the weak protest from the young agent. Silently the man called Daryl growled, but didn't take it and made his way through a bush to go the way Spence took when he flew from the Infected. An impulse of anger and fear ran through Spencer fingertips, but he could just glare at Daryl walking away.
"I'm Spence!", he declared fastly, his voice tremulous. Daryl freezed, and turned around. "Spencer.", Reid corrected with a low voice, and Daryl nodded. Spencer was not good at something like this, making friends without awkward situations. For Spencer, this situation was awkward. A man he didn't know and who wanted to help him. Daryl came back and sat down on a tree trunk, kicked the head of one of the Infected lying around. "The hare won't cook himself.", Daryl murmured and Spencer bend his brow. "I don't know how to light a fire."
Spencer had known, that he had no skills, whether in surviving or in fighting these people. For him they were people, like Daryl was, no Undeads or animals. Spencer sighed. Three doctorates and nearly three bachelor's degrees, but still I am a nitwit and absolutely useless in an apocalypse. Rossi or Emily, either Hotch or JJ would have been a better choice to survive the plane crash, and Derek had sacrificed himself for Reid when a dozen of them took notice of the two SSAs. Spencer thought of the small whistle Derek Morgan had given to him when he failed his shooting exams -seemed that he didn't change much, he had wasted munition for the Infected, seven shots for four.
His fist closed around the bag and after he recognized it he let go of the bag and it fell on the ground. Daryl growled a bit louder and pulled it towards him, then searched for a few dry branches in the surrounding place, while Spencer watched him. Then Daryl pulled out a Zippo and lightened a fire. It was not what Spencer expected, but it was a fire and it helped Spencer to warm up a bit. He hunched up and lay his chin onto his one knee and regarded the other one. His trousers were soaked in blood and cut up, he could see the wound. Daryl was right, the wound was sore, maybe his patella was destroyed, but ever since he tried to ignore the striking pain. The only thing that mattered was surviving.
He sighed and reached it with the fingers of one of his hands. It hurt when he touched the nearly gaping wound and so he made a face and sniffed for a moment. Daryl smirked and Spencer raised his sight, wondering. What was it? But he kept quiet, and didn't ask, made his thinking face and lowered his eyes again to watch the red flesh. The fire caressed his forehead with a warm breeze and he closed his eyes.
"You remind me of someone I knew.", Daryl broke the silence after minutes of hush and staring into the flames. "I don't understand.", Spencer looked at Daryl, who also took a look at the young man. "You didn't ask for my help and didn't thank me, that I understand, but you have to take it. Don't refuse it." Spencer didn't react but looked down on his knee again which was itching. "It hurts, I need to see a doctor. But there are no doctors and you aren't one either.", his voice trembled again a little bit caused by pain. "You are just the survivor type of man." One of Daryl's eyebrows lifted and he stood up, went to one of the trees with a knife. Spencer watched how he cut off the bark and died the knife in the resin that came out. Then he returned to Spencer and knelt down in front of him. He shied back and hold his hand above his knee, but Daryl grabbed hold of this cold hand of his and said soothingly: "The resin will sterilize the wound, but what you need is rest, I know without being a medical bachelor and you know too. As long as I am here you don't need to run away until I say so." Spencer nodded and Daryl began to treat the wound. The resin felt as if it burned itself into flesh and bone, but Spencer forced himself to stay as calm as he could, biting his lip. Daryl used the lower part of the destroyed trousers to make a bandage, but it might have not worked out that well. Still Spencer didn't want to fight and didn't complain.