Author's Note: Oh. My. God. Holywowzersinthetrousers, 100,000%.

This has to have been about the most excruciating week of my life . . . I mean, everyone tells you that college is going to be a lot of work, and I would think that after three semesters, I rather understand that, but . . . Sheesh. Group projects, Chopped-style cook-offs, a seminar on fine wines, blog analysis, recipe hunting . . . I feel like my head's about to explode.

Goof thing I still have this old monster for meditative purposes. Not for more than a few more chapters, I'm afraid. Alas, the end is near! *Throws hand dramatically over eyes in a 20's era swoon*

Thank you a million, bajillion, trillion times to all of the people who have read, followed favorited, and reviewed the last few chapters. It's been so far out of my comfort-zone lately (especially that previous chapter!), and I've been angsting over it pretty hardcore. But the little notifications in my email that let me know people are still reading and enjoying warm the spot where my soul is supposed to be. So thank you for that.

Okay, then . . . time to see what happens in the aftermath of time gone by!

Warnings: This story is rated T for drug use, violence, language, and adult thinking. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of Heroes. Spoilers for seasons 1 – 2 of Criminal Minds.

Disclaimer: Put it this way; the recipe is mine, but the ingredients and tools were borrowed from some kindly neighbor.

I'm not going to ask for reviews, because I can't guarantee I'll answer them all. But any thoughts are always appreciated, if not required.

Do enjoy!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Family

The ambulance ride had been long, silent. And crammed. Morgan had spent the entire time clutching Reid's hand frantically and staring at his face, hungry for any sign of life. The paramedics had been driving, to unsure of what would be safe to say – so they went with nothing at all.

And Peter, of course, had been unable to say a single thing, invisible and 'not-there' as he was. It was killing him not to be able to reach down and touch Spencer, grip his palm or feel his neck, anything to reassure himself that there was a steady pulse. That his friend was still alive.

He contented himself with listening in to Reid's thoughts – which were the equivalent of static; just enough neural buzzing activity to let him know that Spencer wasn't dead, and nothing more than that.

He watched the genius's eyelids, relief flowing through him every time he could see movement beneath one; every movement, voluntary or not, proved that he wasn't going to be alone in this world. He still had his Spence. His best friend.

His blood brother.

Literally, now, I guess.

As the ambulance parked and Morgan began disentangling himself from his tight grip on his friend's arm, he couldn't help the small smile that found its way onto his face.

Reid was back.

It wasn't a happy situation – Morgan winced every time he looked at the kid's skin and saw the cuts on there, the bruises, the shards of glass that made him shudder and realize how lucky it was they had found Pretty Boy when they did – but at least his friend was alive. It had been more than Morgan or Hotch was willing to admit that they were hoping for, and somehow, miracle of miracles, it had happened.

Two nurses rushed up as soon as Morgan and the paramedics entered, taking the gurney and wheeling Reid away for further examination. Morgan patted Reid's foot one last time, and watched until their resident genius turned down a corner and out of sight.

Morgan looked over jut in time to see Hotch enter the building, a haggard look on his tired face. He walked over.

"How is he?" the unit chief asked, wary.

Morgan shrugged his shoulders. "We just got here – they were literally going to examine him when you came in. But on the ride over, his pulse was getting stronger, and he never stopped breathing or anything like that."

"Good," Hotch said. But he didn't look any more relieved, or relaxed. The man just looked troubled, exhausted. "What do you think?"

Morgan just stared at his leader, and tried not to blink when he saw the earnest expression on Hotch's face. "What?"

"Is he going to be okay?" Hotch asked simply, impatience and fear breaking through in his voice.

"Physically? How the Hell would I know? – the kid's bleeding and full of glass, and the paramedics can't give me a solid answer for that . . . Mentally? . . . Hotch, the kid's a fighter. He got through this once, and once his wounds heal up, he'll be okay again. He's got more survival instinct than he knows what to do with."

"Yes," Hotch agreed, "But as you said, Morgan, this isn't the first time it's happened to Reid. And so close to everything with Hankel, I just . . ." when Hotch looked up again, it shocked Morgan to see something close to tears in his eyes, "I don't know how he's going to keep doing this by himself."
"He won't be by himself. He'll have the whole team to help him through this – Gideon and me especially."

Hotch nodded after a long pause, and the two of them went to sit down, Hotch grabbing a clipboard with some registration paperwork on it so that they could get Reid admitted.

While he filled in the questions, Morgan clasped his hands together and tried not to let the constant scratching of Hotch's pen get one his nerves too much. All was quiet between them.

So when the older man spoke again, it startled Morgan, who had been so lost in his own thoughts that he'd almost forgotten the conversation they'd been having before.

"What if he doesn't want to come back?" Hotch asked, never looking up from his writing, afraid to see the honest answer etched across Morgan's face.

It was something Derek hadn't considered before. He knew how tough the kid was – beneath those soft features and that skinny frame was someone who could get through the worst life had to offer without blinking an eye, coming out smiling on the other end of the inferno. Hell, last time he had been taken by Hankel, and after nine days of recuperation (which had been at the FBI Chief's insistence, and not his own), the kid had returned to work fine. Well, moody and a little withdrawn, but seeing what he'd been through, that seemed normal enough.

But now?

Now when they had finally gotten to him, the kid looked even worse than last time. Obviously something had gone down, and Sylar had thrown him through a window.

It was a miracle he hadn't succumbed to blood loss before they found him.

Reid had already died once before; and they had all been forced to watch.

No, stop thinking like that, Morgan told himself stubbornly, refusing to let go of hope. Yes, his friend was injured physically. And yes, there was going to be a lot of emotional aftermath to deal with.

But Reid was . . . well, Reid. He was stronger than he looked – tough as nails, as Morgan's old man would have said – and he would get through this.

A few minutes later, Hotch finished filling out the questionnaire and turned it in to a sullen-looking nurse at the front desk who thanked him very much and asked to please take a seat and wait for the doctor, sir.

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

The two of them sat in the hard-backed chairs in the waiting room of the hospital's ER – which Morgan still wasn't sure had been entirely necessary, but then, what did he know about glass stabbings? – as a flurry of people came, left, signed forms, got good news, got bad news, cried, cheered, went to see loved ones, or just plain went.

For a little while, Morgan tried profiling some of the various people coming and going, tried to guess what their stories might be based on the way that they dressed and walked.

Based off of some of the ensuing conversations he heard as time went by, Morgan was quite good at his little game. Unfortunately, his head began to hurt, and after a few more hours of nothing, he closed his eyes, prepared to rest.

He was awoken shortly thereafter by the sound of someone yelling.

Of course, the entire room had been filled with varying raised voices since the time that they had gotten there. But his one was different.

It was familiar.

Morgan peeked up at the front desk.

Peter Petrelli?

He had stayed, unseen and unheard, right by Spence's side the very second he had been lifted out of the back of the ambulance. Peter knew he couldn't clutch his best friend's hand like he oh-so-wanted to without giving the paramedics and the FBI agent a hearty scare, but he contented himself with the fact that he at least would get to follow Reid into the medical examiner's office.

He had only felt comfortable leaving Sylar when he – somewhat grudgingly – used the power he had gotten from Matt Parkman to force the villain into a long and deep comatose sleep. Oh, Sylar was alive, of course, and would be just as murderous when he woke up . . . but that might take a few days. Dictated dreams were . . . hard to get out of.

He had stood in the background when Spencer was surrounded by curious doctors and nurses all of them ordering different codes for what was to be done. They contemplated surgery, anesthesia, simple shock-removal . . . All of it had Peter's blood boiling, wanting nothing more than do mix some more of his regenerative DNA with the genius's and see if he couldn't help him keep healing on his own.

That, of course, had had Peter a little bit puzzled on the way over here. Why hadn't his blood totally cured Reid? He had seen Adam's blood bring his brother Nathan back from a brain-dead coma, had seen Claire's body spit up bullets and close what should have been life-threatening wounds. He had the same ability, and had come back from death enough times without an injury in sight – so why was Spencer still covered in cuts and bruises?

He shook his head of his wonderings. Just be grateful he's alive, you idiot. You brought him back from the dead, isn't that enough?

It should have been. But seeing as this whole thing was all his fault already, it didn't ease Peter's feelings of guilt to see his friend's skin covered in so many colors that it simply shouldn't be.

He shivered slightly as the doctors removed Reid's shirt and began using tweezers to pull out the smaller pieces of glass. The skin didn't heal itself immediately upon removal of the sharp objects – which was actually good, how would they explain such a thing? – and he winced in sympathy for his friend when the staff began sticking needles in his delicate skin, deftly sewing shut the wounds.

Maybe your blood isn't as powerful as Adam's or Claire's, his brain suddenly shot at him.

They were born with those powers. You just copied them.

After all, he couldn't fly as fast as Nathan. He wasn't as super-strong as Nikki. It took him longer to teleport, phase through things, or shoot electricity than it did for the people from whom he had adopted said abilities.

So maybe his blood was just strong enough to save lives, and not to erase scars.

I can live with that, Peter mused, relieved when the last doctor looked up form his friend's abdomen and called for a nurse.

He watched, relief ebbing through him as they wrapped some bandages around Spencer, and told the nurse to bring him a hot cloth. Tenderly wrapping the warm thing around Reid's neck, the doctor patted the genius's shoulder in a manner meant to be comforting, and had another nurse wheel him out to his room. He then began the tedious process of washing his hands.

Peter had exited the room swiftly, rounding a corner and making himself visible all at once, intent on getting the head nurse's permission to sit in Reid's room with his friend. While he could certainly and easily just sneak in there and accompany the genius ghostly as he had been, he wanted to be whole, solid, and holding Spence's hand when he came to.

That had been his plan, until the argument started.

"Sir, I really can't just allow you – "

"If he's all finished with his doctor, why can't I sit with him?"

Because I have no idea who you are. "Because he's only just come out of a medical examination, and he needs to rest."

"I used to be a nurse, ma'am. With all due respect, doesn't policy state that as long as a patient's not in surgery, family can visit him?"

She looked at him skeptically. "Are you family?"

"I'm as good as."

"I'm afraid that's not really – "

Peter slammed one fist down on the counter, but the woman barely even jumped. She just watched him, wary, one eyebrow raised, and before Peter could get a chance to apologize, he felt a hand clamping down on his shoulder. Tight, hard.

"Petrelli."

Oh, for the love of – Not this guy again.

Of course, Peter didn't say what he was thinking. Instead, he forced all unpleasentry from his face, and turned to face Derek Morgan with a determined grimace on his face, if nothing else.

"Special Agent. Imagine seeing you here." He shifted his hand on the desk casually to the desktop computer his little nurse was using, his eyes never leaving the black man's.

"I could say the same to you, Petrelli. Why are you here?"

Peter scowled. "Why do you think? Spence is here, and I want to be there when he woke up."

Morgan's frown matched the younger man's perfectly. "Really. And how did you know that Reid was here?"

Peter blinked for a moment, allowing his hand to very gently control the computer underneath of it.

"Call it intuition."

Morgan shook his head. "I call it suspicious."

Peter finally shrugged, forcing his voice to be more casual than his racing heart would have him believe. "A friend, Agent Morgan. Just a friend."

Or a psychotic serial killer. The specifics didn't really matter. Point was, he was there now,

Morgan never lifted that heavy gaze from Peter's, and it took quite a bit for the dark-haired man to remove his eyes, either; instead, he focused simultaneously on staring down the agent before him and finishing telling the old machine beneath his fingers what he needed it to do.

Morgan spoke first. " . . . Right . . . Do you need anything else?" The command leave was implied in the tone alone, even if Peter hadn't been able to hear the word resonating in Morgan's mind. He shook his head.
"Just for the lovely . . . " he glanced at the nurse's name tag, "Paula here to let me in to see Spencer. Nothing more."

Morgan shook his head immediately. "I don't think so, bub. Family only."

Peter raised an eyebrow. " And that includes you?"

"More than it does you." The challenge was clear in Morgan's voice.

Peter was sure it wouldn't go over too well if a fight were to commence between the two of them. Besides the fact that he had no idea how the agent held over his temperament, there was also the tiny issue that he could emit radiation and rip people in half with his bare hands.

Best not to take any chances, then.

"I think you'll find, Agent Morgan, that Spencer's going to be asking for me when he wakes up. I thought I might just save you guys the time."

"I doubt it."

Peter closed his eyes, finally brushing his fingers over the desktop before moving them back to his sides and taking a deep calming breath.

"You really need to let me go in there, sir."

Morgan's eyes flashed dangerously. "And why is that, Petrelli?"

His eyes just as dark, his face just as challenging, Peter spoke. "I'm his emergency contact."

Moragn immediately shook his head. "Bullshit. That's Agent Gideon, has been for awhile."

Well, not anymore. "Check the computer."

They both turned to watch the nurse, who typed in a few things before looking up at the both of them. "You Peter Petrelli?" she grunted softly.

Peter nodded, trying to smile winningly like Nathan always did. "He can confirm it," he said lightly, gesturing to the agent.

Morgan glared at him, the evidence of how very little he like Peter spelled out across his chiseled features.

"Sure," he finally said, pained but bound by his Hippocratic oath. He watched in furious silence as the desk nurse lightly touched Peter's shoulders, gesturing for him to follow her down the hallway. He continued shooting his poisonous glance until he could no longer see the irritating man.

God, he hated him.

A hand clamping down on his shoulder – much as he had done earlier, ironically – had Morgan jolting slightly, and he turned around to see Hotch watching him, gaze steely but unreadable.

Morgan blinked slowly and shook his head, answering Hotch's unasked question, and the unit chief nodded in agreement.

Neither of them liked Peter, but if Spencer wanted him in his life . . .

"Gideon just called," Hotch finally spoke, his voice quiet, radiating the cam that somehow only he ever could. "Everyone's on their way down here. He and JJ should be first, they're closer. And Emily within an hour more."

Morgan nodded. "Good. Pretty Boy'll be glad to see 'em."

Hotch looked at him appraisingly, knowing what he wasn't saying. "You okay?"

Morgan shrugged. "I want to talk to Reid about that guy, but otherwise, I'm fine. Just . . . happy that the kid is back."

"Good," Hotch said in way that was final, and went to sit back down. Morgan watched him for another moment before joining the older man.

And once more, the two of them waited.

Peter had entered the hospital room with more than a little trepidation.

It had been an endless source of teasing for him from Nathan that he had chosen to go into the medical field when there were few things that Peter hated more than the dank white halls and sterile rooms that composed a majority of doctor's facilities. It had, in no small part, played a role in Peter's choice to enter Hospice and Nursing; at least that way he would be taking care of people inside of their own homes. That had felt right.

Here, he just felt sick.

Even more so by the sight of his longtime best friend looking so small in one of those dreadful beds. His eyes were closed – still sleeping, and that was fine – so Peter had a moment to take in his appearance; Reid's normally curly hair was matted and brushed aside, leaving no doubt as one took in his peaky face, taut cheekbones and dark skin under the eyes that yes, indeed, this kid needed to be in the hospital. His breathing was steady, but not as slow as it should be if he were having normal dreams. Though lying on his back, the kid was still curled ever so slightly, and his hands were clenched into fists around his blanket. He whimpered softly, the sound echoing around the room.

Nightmare, Peter realized.

He darted over to the bed, soft on his feet and very quick, by Reid's side in an instant and bending down to clasp his hand. Peter brushed some of the scraggly strands of hair off of Reid's face, mustering him in that always-intense stare of his.

"Ssh, Spence. Ssh. It's just a dream," he whispered, clutching Spencer's hand more tightly as the man flinched slightly in his sleep, his pulse speeding up noticeably in Peter's palm.

"Ssh . . ."

It took a moment, but with the strong grasp and soothing words, Spencer finally seemed to calm down, and went back to his earlier quiet state of slumber. Lifting up one corner of his mouth in what could have been a smile, Peter beckoned over a chair with his finger and sat down, his hand never leaving his friend's.

He glanced over the mildly twitching the features, the scrunched lips and bruise-looking eyes, and wondered for a moment if he should try and meet Spencer inside of his own head again – it was rapidly becoming the way that they talked, it seemed.

But, no. After a quick second of consideration, Peter knew it wouldn't be a good idea. He would need to be there when Spence woke. The kid would have questions, and for the first time in a long time, Peter wanted to be there in person to answer them.

So it would be, then.

He sighed, deeply, and set about the tedious process of waiting.

Author's Endnote: Well, then . . . honestly, there's probably little-to-nil more whump in what remains of this fic. Some more drama to come, certainly, but . . . well, for anyone who was reading to see poor Spencer get thrown through the wringer . . . nada. It's emotions and feels from here on out. No more drugs, no more torture. I'm only saying this so that ya know I completely understand if some people want to taper off reading this now. If not, well . . . see you next week! I'm off to do more homework! *Sarcastic eye-roll here*