Having the badge came in handy, enabling him to pass through hospital security and nursing desks quickly, and then he was there, looking down at her still form, covered with a thin blanket, eyes closed, breathing gently. He hadn't stopped to ask anyone how bad it was, how she was. He was surprised that they were alone; he'd expected her colleagues to be in the room. Or medical staff. His eyes took in the monitors, the curves of bandaging under the sheet, the IV drips, her pallor. One side of her face was bruised, lacerated and swollen - he assumed she must have struck the ground when she fell. He saw a plastic bag on the table, recognized police blues. And blood. He swallowed hard. He felt almost weak in the calves for some reason, and a twinge in the thigh from his own, old injury caused him to stumble slightly against the plastic chair next to her bed before he sat. He steadied it with a hand, and ran the other through his hair as he sat down. He exhaled deeply.
He knew from looking that she wasn't in great danger; the readouts looked reasonable, especially for someone who had just suffered violent trauma. He exhaled again. He felt his heart rate slow somewhat. Looking around, he saw a knot of officers through a glass-paned divider, huddled around a nurse to the west in the hallway. One of them caught his glance, nodded, and looked back into the group, resuming whatever discussion he had been having. He looked down again, and this time found his gaze locked into a pair of green eyes.
"Dr. Reid." It was a quiet salutation, raspy, and apparently said with some effort. He felt warmth flood his face - thankfully, he knew, invisible to her - and his body moved in response as though pulled by some central wire into itself.
"Hi. . . How are you feeling?" he asked. "I heard what happened - I mean, some of it."
She closed her eyes for more than a moment, then opened them and asked, "Did you get my message?"
His heart raced again, until he realized she meant about 'brothers'. "Oh, yes, yes we did. We got it. Hotch and Morgan are arresting Ward now - or, well, they went out a while ago. I haven't gotten an update, but it's reasonable to assume they will catch him. The Queens police set up a perimeter. . . " he trailed off.
The green eyes were masked by lids again. "If that's so, I guess I am doing alright," she said. She grimaced slightly, and her hand moved under the covers. "How long. . .?"
"I don't actually know," he said, feeling himself calm. Oddly, it was reassuring to be in this room with her, knowing neither of them had pressing business. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, I find it soothing that she's unlikely to leave - or ask me to - under the present circumstances. "I just got here myself."
"Yes," she said, smiling slightly, "I heard you hit the chair." Her hand emerged slowly, and she ran it through her hair, not before he had the opportunity to see extensive, dark bruising along the side of her arm. The sight made him swallow, hard, repressing the emotions he felt with a physical movement.
"It's been more than three hours since you called - you've had some surgery, to remove the bullets. . . . Is there anyone I can call for you?" he asked, grasping really for something to say.
"No." A long pause. "I know, earlier, Jameson was here with some of the guys. I don't remember much about it - still fuzzy. But they're good guys. I don't. . . there's no one else I need to call." He noticed, finally, as the hand came to rest, that it was bare of rings. "I - oof!"
Her her eyes slammed shut and her lips pursed as both hands flew to her face, disturbing the thin hospital blanket and more fully revealing the bandaging and tubing underneath. And the bruising. She shook briefly - he wasn't sure if she was sobbing, or shivering, or something else. He could see locks of golden hair sticking slightly to cleaned wounds near her hairline.
"What? What is it? Should I call a nurse?" He found that he was crouched over her, one arm reaching out towards her shoulder. He, whose physical response to pain or contact was always to pull into himself, whose habitual posture around strangers was somewhat bent, as though to disguise his height and retract his body from their touch - here he was, leaning, reaching towards Oliver. Again. And he didn't remember moving into this position. "No, sorry. . . " she trailed off, and shook her head once, twice, before leaning slightly further forward and to the side. "Just - unexpectedly painful to move." She grimaced again, and leaned back. He had been so concerned about some new emergency that he hadn't registered the touch, but now he felt again the coolness of her, the incredible softness of her skin as her arm in the short-sleeved hospital gown brushed him. "I know," Reid said. There was a long pause. "I was once shot in the leg, by a man named Patrick Meyers. It was superficial, I mean, I wasn't in danger, but it was very painful." Oliver opened her eyes and looked at him. They were silent again for a long moment. Reid was too flustered to notice Oliver's eyes glistening more than usual following his statement or to consider what that might mean.
"Do you remember what happened? Can you think back?" he asked, struggling to guise his concern in BAU protocol. Morgan was usually the best at cognitive interviews, but Reid was here, and he knew the principles. He needed something to say. He wasn't ready to leave yet.
"Can you tell me why you were out there?" Oliver had called for backup at a house belonging to Sam and Patricia Ward, in Queens, half a mile from the factory; two cars were on their way from the 115, and arrived only 17 minutes after the call to find her bleeding on the front porch, house empty.
"I live in Queens. I grew up there." Oliver said simply, eyes still closed. "I was thinking about the list of suspects you'd initially assembled, with a focus on men with siblings who were dead or in trouble or estranged - or really, in any kind of difficulty."
"But I remembered Ward, and for some reason, I kept coming back to him. And it wasn't until I was driving home last night that I-" a brief hiss, alleviating pain, "-that I figured out why."
Oliver had gone to school with Charles Ward, and on her drive, remembered him as a bully, a rough one. There had been some incident involving a pair of sisters on the playground, the details lost in murky childhood memories, but Ward had switched schools after that, at the "ripe old age of 11." Ward hadn't focused much on Oliver, herself a single child, until one day, in the second grade, she came to school intentionally dressed like another girl - they had read some book about twins, and were pretending hard to be a pair of twins. "I was always a bookish kid," she said in a tone hard to measure. Ward hassled the girls all that day in class, got sent to the principal's office twice, and even shoved one of them roughly onto the blacktop, "accidentally", while the older boys had been racing around playing a ball game. He left them alone after that - but they never dared to dress the same again. Certain of her suspicion, Oliver called for backup - but didn't wait for them to arrive to approach the house. "I just, after so long, I didn't want to lose him. I knew it was irrational. But I felt like I had to go, then."
As expected, she didn't recall most of the details of the moments immediately prior to her being shot. But she had encountered Ward, at his parents' house, and while at first she had mastery of the situation, someone had managed to knock her down from behind, and she woke up in the midst of a ferocious beating. "I used my best instincts to spare myself serious injury, but I couldn't. . . " she trailed off. Reid felt his mouth tighten in an unfamiliar expression: deep anger, almost ferocity. A tear trailed down her cheek, then another, and a third. His lips set in a thin line.
"I'm sorry," she said, "so sorry - I, it was just hard to remember, coming back all at once. I don't mean to fall apart at you. And I'm so - mad - at me. . . I was stupid" She leaned back from him, eyes still closed. She took a deep breath. He felt the anger mount as he watched the bandaging and IV rise and fall with it. He suddenly realized he'd been holding her hand - when had that happened? He felt awkward, and confused by all the strong emotions besieging him. Most of which made no sense. He withdrew his hand from hers and sat back in the chair. They stayed silent for a while again while she breathed, machines clicking and beeping gently in the background. He heard the slight buzz of fluorescent lighting. The gang of officers filed past, sticking their heads in to joke and express wishes to Oliver as they left. Her former partner, Jameson, even acknowledged Reid in his conversation. "You make sure she doesn't back out on us, OK?" A nurse made some notes in a chart, cast stern eyes at Reid, but smiled gently at Oliver when she asked for some water. Everyone, everywhere, seemed to like her. He caught the nurse outside the room for a more complete update. And then they were alone again.
"Dr. Reid, I," she began.
"It's OK," he said earnestly. "And you can call me Spencer." Oops. He hadn't meant to say that.
That earned him a small smile. "Dr. Spencer, then," she said with a deeper grin. The smile faded. Reid felt his own spirits sink slightly with it. Then he felt her hand over his - cool, soft, firm, and roughened with tape and tubing. It was an incredibly gentle touch, and he didn't know what it meant. He found he couldn't look at her, or at her directly, so he stared at the hand.
"Spencer. I appreciate your coming to see me. I sincerely didn't mean to cause trouble in the investigation - or to take up your time" Oddly, he felt that he was the one being reassured. He had come to see how Oliver was, and as she lay here, beaten and shot, she was apologizing to him. He swallowed, and she let her hand relax, brushing his own as it slid, his heart quickening at the contact.
"I think what you told me could be useful." Inwardly, he knew this wasn't what he wanted to say. But he didn't know how to say what he wanted to say. He'd never been very good at talking about things unrelated to his job or his academic interests. Really, he had no experience telling someone he didn't know that he cared for them - he didn't know if he could, or even should. It was hard enough telling those he knew - his mother, JJ, Gideon. He never found the courage to say so directly, as much as he wished others would be clear with him. Especially in this situation. He couldn't honestly even say that he did care for Oliver - he barely knew her. He just knew, suddenly, that he thought he would like to.
As he thought, her body shivered, shaking his hand. "Here, are you cold?" he asked, taking off his jacket, and placing it gently over her. "Hypothermia is a common response to trauma, often as a result of decreased heat production due to loss of motor activity. I'll see if they can get you another blanket."
"Indeed. Thank you. Again." she said. As he was passing through the door frame, he glanced backward. She looked so exposed there, small under his jacket and all the bandaging. When he had come back, feeling pride at obtaining the second blanket, he started to explain that the nursing staff had been somewhat combative - but when he looked up, she appeared to be asleep. "Detective Oliver?" he whispered. She didn't move. A quick glance at the monitors reassured him again that she didn't have worrisome signs, and he stopped himself from trying to wake her, to soothe an inner voice anxiously complaining that maybe she had some undiscovered injury, that she had slipped into unconsciousness. The odds of that were less than 0.73%, based on the types of injuries she had sustained and the tests that had been done. He gently unfolded the blanket and covered her with it before slipping out the door and back to his rental car.
It wasn't until he'd gotten home that night that he realized he'd left his jacket.
X-X-X-X-X
It was, indeed, all over. Hotch and Morgan had apprehended Ward, and Morgan had physically tackled the murderer just about the time Reid caught the eye of the officers in the hallway. Ward now sat waiting for trial. He was an interesting criminal, and the crimes were unusual, giving plenty of potential new information for Rossi's books, VICAP and others. He'd already assaulted two men in prison, two large African-American men who looked similar to one another and had adopted matching tattoos. He was being segregated from the general population. Yet Reid found it hard to focus on the process.
The team was moving on. JJ was already reviewing files for the next case, but hadn't selected a new one on the day following the shooting. They planned to board the jet that evening, and so the agents spent half a day unwinding in the city. Hotch was a good leader, and understood that the team needed a little recouperation - he essentially ordered them to relax when they convened in the conference room that morning. Morgan was out somewhere, JJ had gone shopping for Henry, Rossi was visiting "an old friend." And Reid found himself driving back to Queens - to pick up his jacket, as he'd explained to a curious Rossi, whom he'd offered a lift. Rossi had probed at him, gently, asking Reid pointed questions about whether he planned to explore museums, or libraries, or talk to local academics. He wasn't sure what Rossi thought he knew, but he was relieved when the bearded face and the growing grin got out of his car and left him in peace.
Oliver appeared better today. She'd been relieved of her IVs, and, he learned, given two weeks to heal. She explained with evident relief, and embarrassment, that IAB wasn't concerned about her not waiting for backup - those sorts of things weren't too strictly scrutinized in cases where all ended well, apparently. And officers were more likely to be lauded for bravery than punished for it. She took fewer pauses between her sentences today, and those lovely eyes were open for most of them. All in all, Reid was relieved at her aspect. He'd known that she was very likely to survive, he told himself. But he also knew that he repeated these sorts of things to himself in reassurance, just like he occasionally reviewed the statistics on schizophrenia. That didn't mean he was never irrationally scared. And, the sight of her bruising still made him irrationally angry. As she bent sideways to retrieve his jacket, the blankets slipped off her feet, and he was shocked at the state of her soles. Ward had apparently known about the pain - and lethality - of beating the soles of someone's feet. When she reached back up to hand him the jacket, the stricken look on his face made her eyes widen, and she dropped it to the bed. He waived her questions away, accepted the jacket, and distractedly chattered at length about hypotheses concerning Ward.
The time passed quickly for Reid. He greatly wanted to keep talking, or just to be there, with her, for as long as he could - surprised at how quickly the intensity of his feelings towards this woman had grown. What was he thinking, he asked himself again. He paused for breath. Oliver made a deft segue into some of her own cases, and he listened to her talk, watching the expressions passing over her face, taking in her unusual language, only half-listening to the details of her police experience. He stayed at her side for ninety minutes. But eventually, he noticed the extreme weariness that still haunted her face, and he knew he had to urge her to rest. She lay back, seemingly grateful, closing her eyes at last. But as he was rising from the chair, restraining himself mightily from tucking blankets around her, or smoothing back the errant lock of hair from her face at the same time he imagined what that might feel like, he caught her eyes snapping open, and for the first time, he thought he saw fear flicker across her features.
"Are you leaving?"
"Yes, of course - I mean - you need to rest, and I don't want to keep you awake."
"No," she said, "I mean, the BAU, are you leaving the city?" He hadn't brought himself to say anything about it.
"Oh, uh, well, yes, Ward has been arrested and we're certain that NYPD can handle collecting the remainder of the evidence it needs for a strong conviction. We're scheduled to return this evening." He paused, and thought furiously for a few seconds about probabilities, and, hopelessly, his own inexperience. He heard Greenaway, in his memory - 'Have you ever asked anyone?' He couldn't believe that he was about to change that answer. But something about this woman - her quiet bravery, her clear intelligence, her interest in him, and just how he felt to be around her - pushed him past his usual anxieties, reticence and helplessness.
He took the risk. "But, I have had some personal leave pending. It's rare for us to come to the city. And, uh, so, I might be in New York a few days longer - there are some rare books in the public library collections I still can't access online, or obtain copies of - I mean, not ethically, anyway. I, so, uh, and there's a professor at John Jay I would like to talk to, so . . . if you're interested, I could keep tabs on the status of the evidence, and uh, give you an update?" The last bit sort of squeaked out.
He had surprised himself. Whatever he had intended to say, that hadn't been it. And what if he couldn't get a few days off? He knew JJ was selecting a new case - and the last time he'd tried to stay somewhere on his own, he'd come back to find Rossi and Morgan camped out in his hotel room. He wasn't sure he wanted to deal with that this time around. He wasn't sure, he admitted to himself, that he could handle it. He thought back to Rossi's grin. But he had said it.
"I would, yes. I would so appreciate it. If it doesn't inconvenience you terribly." There was a pause.
"Spencer," she said, opening her eyes again, "I pride myself on being pretty good with people. And so my perception is that you prefer information to be delivered clearly and directly - especially when it comes to personal interactions - even if that's hard to come by."
"Yes," he said, mildly confused.
"Well. And, I am unafraid to embarrass myself. Therefore, I am just going to say this, and luckily, you are out of the chair, so if you'd like to run for the door now, it's an easy sprint. And you never have to see me again." She paused.
"Actually, I am quite a fast runner," he volunteered, mindlessly, covering his anxiety with speech.
She laughed briefly. "Oh, good."
"Directly, then. I find you incredibly compelling. Personally, I mean. And I would very much like, now that we are not working a case together anymore, the opportunity to get to know you a little bit. So, if that doesn't start you running, please, come back tomorrow. And as long as you're here. I would very much like to see you."
He made a glottal noise, a thousand nervous responses colliding in his esophagus. He moved a step closer to her, close enough that she could have touched him if she reached out her hand. He swallowed, and tried again. "I. I would like that, very much."
He felt his own mouth broaden in a surprised smile, and, with a feeling of euphoric unreality, he was powerless to stop his hand from reaching out to gently move back the straggling hair from her face. He had never initiated physical contact like this before. She turned her head slightly towards his arm, as he did, and he felt the softness of her lips ever so gently brush the inside of his arm. His whole body felt electrified, or carbonated, and it took all his internal reserves not to start back from her. Nerve damage? He wondered, briefly. Her eyes stayed closed, and she made no affirmative move to kiss him, but she kept her face there, centimeters from his arm, her breath tickling. His fingertips rested on her skull. He moved his hand more fully through her hair, feeling the silken strands pass through his fingers. He tucked another lock slightly behind her ear, and then forced his hand to withdraw. He was certain she could hear his pulse pounding at his wrist.
He straightened, tousled his hair, and looked around at a loss for a moment. He needed a deep breath. "I'll. . . see you tomorrow, then."
"I can't wait," she said, eyes open and watching him as he left, something closer to her prior quick smile showing on her face.
He sat in the car, in the parking lot, for twenty three and a half minutes, just breathing. As he moved his jacket off his lap to place it in the passenger's seat, he caught some scent from it. He brought it to his nose. It smelled like her. He drove back, and parked, not waiting until he was back in his room to pick up the phone to ask for four days leave. He swallowed a gulp when he heard Hotch answer, through the door to his own room, as he passed by.