CHAPTER SIX: STRUCK DOWN
I do not think that what is called Love at first sight is so great an absurdity as it is sometimes imagined to be. We generally make up our minds beforehand to the sort of person we should like, grave or gay, black, brown, or fair; with golden tresses or raven locks; -- and when we meet with a complete example of the qualities we admire, the bargain is soon struck."
William Hazlitt
It was touch and go for several more hours, and Wyatt waited for all of them. Her charts had been confused with another woman's two floors down, and Wyatt had a feeling the hospital would be facing an internal audit first thing in the morning. If not more. Hotchner had made a few phone calls, his voice coldly lethal as he'd explained to the other end of the line exactly what had happened.
Wyatt didn't like him, but he had to admit the man was very effective.
She'd looked so frightened. Nothing at all like the strong, fearless leader he'd seen standing facing incredible odds just a few hours earlier. He'd had a hard time fighting the urge to stay at her side, to hold her hand. Tell her she'd be fine, that he was there and wouldn't let anything else happen to her.
He'd never felt that way about a victim before. Or another law enforcement agent. It…disconcerted… him slightly. He sat back and watched the occupants of the waiting room as they sat there. The little one, Ziva, had returned three hours after leaving. Hadn't spoken to anyone, just settled down on the couch, her foot propped up on the arm. She'd fallen asleep twenty minutes later. The black guy, BAU, had returned not long after.
Hotchner had merely nodded, then updated the man on Agent Prentiss's status. The guy had balled his fists, demanded to know why with all the team had been through, she was injured while out for drinks. Hotchner had merely nodded, saying he didn't understand it either.
The kid and the older guy had returned, too. Neither had said much, just took chairs and waited. And waited. They all waited.
Finally the doctor entered the waiting room. "Here for Agent Prentiss?"
"We all are." Hotchner said, in a coldly flat, unemotional tone. Wyatt really didn't like the man. "How is she?"
"She's stable. Sleeping, peacefully, finally. We've flushed the narcotics out of her system, repaired all damage done by the bullet, and are watching for signs of infection. If all goes well from here on out, she'll be walking out of here in the next couple of days. She's a lucky woman."
"Lucky you're damned hospital didn't kill her, you mean?" The black guy said.
"The allergic reaction was serious, we don't deny that. But there should be no after-effects at this point. In the meantime, I suggest you all go home, she won't be waking for at least another six to eight hours." The doctor said, wearily rubbing her forehead.
"I'll be staying." Hotchner said, coldly. Wyatt wondered if he did everything that coldly.
"Me, too. And I doubt we could get Ziva to leave." Penelope said. "And I wouldn't be brave enough to even try."
"Why?" the boy asked, looking at the small woman.
"Moussad." Penelope said, looking at the still sleeping woman. "She doesn't look it, but she's more dangerous than Hot Stuff over there."
Wyatt's brows rose. Moussad explained a few things. "Agent Hotchner, I'll expect a call when your girl wakes up."
"We'll see that you're informed."
EMILYSLEEPINGBEAUTY
Emily hurt. Her arm was on fire, as was her chest, and throat. There was another damned tube, and she couldn't get it out. Her hand was on a remote and she pushed the button, hoping it was what she thought it was.
She got her answer when a nurse ambled in a few moments later. "Well, look who's finally awake. You've had quite a crowd in the waiting room. Let's get that tube out, so you can greet them."
Five minutes later Emily was sucking water through a straw. The nurse finally lowered the cup and Emily spoke for the first time since waking. "My friends? Are they alright?"
"I believe so. If you'd like I can grab a few of those visitors and they can fill you in on what's happened since you were brought in. I'll page your doctor as well."
"Thank you." Emily rasped out. "Is Hotch out there?"
"I'll check. He the tall, dark haired guy in a suit. Who looks like he's never smiled?"
"Yes. My boss."
"I'll check."
BAUBAUBAUBAUBAUBADDASSES
The nurse Wyatt had bribed to call him notified him twenty minutes later that the patient was awake. Thirty minutes later, he was strolling through the hospital, intent on getting her statement.
But that damned Hotchner barred him at the door. "You're not going in yet, she needs time to rest."
"I need to speak with her. This will only take a moment." Wyatt said, meeting the man's gaze head on. The guy might be a cold bastard, but if he thought he'd be able to intimidate Wyatt, he was in for a hard lesson. "I'm doing my job, Hotchner, don't stand in my way."
"Hotch?" A feminine voice rang out and Wyatt felt his gut tighten. "I can talk to him. Better to get it out of the way."
Hotchner moved, though Wyatt saw the reluctance in his actions. As he stepped around the man, Hotchner leaned in. "Do not upset her, in any way."
"Don't plan on it." Wyatt smirked, his blue eyes meeting cold brown ones. Then his breath caught as he turned toward the woman on the bed. Her eyes—they were dark, fathomless. Captivating. She was thin, he saw, but with feminine curves. Older than he'd first thought, closer to his thirty-eight than the thirty he'd originally estimated. She held knowledge in her eyes, knowledge of the world, and knowledge of the evil in that world. She was pale, and he wondered if it was entirely due to her recent ordeal or if her skin was naturally that milky.
She looked like the children's fairytale version of Snow White. He wondered if Hotchner fulfilled the role of Prince Charming as the man moved to her side. The black guy was there, again, sitting at the foot of the bed. The boy stood awkwardly at the window, eyes darting from person to person. Wyatt had heard he was some kind of doctor, but he doubted it.
"If I could have a few moments alone with Agent Prentiss?" Wyatt drawled, looking at each of the men. "I promise it won't take long."
He knew they were reluctant to leave, but the woman on the bed nodded. The three drifted out, each one shooting a warning look at Wyatt. He smirked. They weren't so intimidating, he'd come across much worse.
He moved closer to the bed, eyes meeting the direct gaze of Agent Emily Prentiss. She looked smaller than he remembered and it gave him pause. "How are you feeling?"
"Like someone shot me." She said, evenly. "I'll admit it, Detective…? I'm sorry, I don't really remember you."
"Michael Wyatt. Head of the DC task force on gang prevention." He shook her hand, the one not in a sling, careful of the IV tubes running into her soft skin. "We met last night."
"Last night." Her brow furrowed. "You were the cop who wanted me to lower my weapon."
"Yes." Wyatt was still ok with the way he'd handled things, so he left it at that small word. "What else do you remember?"
"Should I start at the beginning?" Her voice was husky, a result of the livid bruises that covered her throat—bruises in the distinct shape of a man's large hand. Bruises that made Wyatt very, very angry.
"That's always a good place." He said, drolly. Her eyes flashed with what he assumed was a touch of humor.
"In the beginning I was born in a relatively large town in Maryland." She began and he laughed.
"Not quite that beginning, Agent Prentiss." He moved closer to the bed, absently straightened the blanket around her feet. She'd kicked it off, and one small foot was peeking out at him. Someone had painted her toenails, he saw, a bright array of rainbow colors. Probably one of her friends, Penelope, most likely. She had exquisitely feminine toes. Wyatt had never had a foot fetish before, but he definitely liked the looks of her foot. He ruthlessly covered it up and got back to his business. "Why were you at Cooley's?"
"We'd heard it was a nice place. That it was interesting, entertaining, food was great. And that it was safe." Her mouth twisted there at the end.
"Safe?" Wyatt moved closer unconsciously as he saw the small shiver run through her. She leaned back against the pillow, adjusted the bed before answering.
"Detective Wyatt—my team and I chase serial killers. Ziva's—murderers, rapists, kidnappers. Elena's—they deal with finding people who are nine times out of ten, already dead. So when we get together, we want to go someplace where we can feel secure enough to relax. It was the first time we'd been to Cooley's so we were a little more cautious, a little more prepared. Thank God. We had our weapons, many times we've went out without them. Never again."
Wyatt felt for her, understood the pressures of the job they all did. Hated that that small measure of escape had been taken from her. Inexplicably wanted to wrap his arms around her and tell her it would be alright, that he'd keep her safe.
What the hell was the matter with him? He'd never felt this way about a woman, never so intensely, and never so quickly. Wyatt wasn't the kind of guy who fell, especially this hard.
But there was something about Agent Emily Prentiss that drew him.
Before he could say anything his cell rang, and he stepped back politely. He probably shouldn't have had it on in the building, but he'd forgotten.
He spoke for a moment, listened for even longer, before disconnecting. He looked at the woman on the narrow hospital bed. "Agent Prentiss?"
"Yes? Are we about finished? I'm sorry, but I'm feeling incredibly tired." Her eyes were closed when he stepped closer.
"Certainly, just as soon as you tell me who you know who'd have the motive and the knowledge to snap Al Corruthers' neck."
Her eyes flew open, big, dark, exotic, and confused. "Excuse me?"
"The man who shot you, who we both shot? He was scheduled to be transported to the prison hospital ward this evening. They just found him with his neck snapped. So once again, who do you know who'd kill for you?" He pushed, voice turning harsh from years of experience at just the right moment.
Someone had turned killer, and he had a strong suspicion she knew who.
And she was going to tell him. One way or another.
