Guarded Hearts and Broken Wings || S.R.

12 - Melting Hands

Spencer hated everything about hospitals, but particularly he hated the lights. The bright LEDs glared down on him to remind him of how pristine everything around him was. White walls, doors, tiles, and ceilings. It gave him no corner to cower in and let it all pass and no moment to forget that he was a mess in every sense of the word. He avoided looking down at his hands because when he did, she was there. All over him, in fact, in dark, dry red. The nurse had offered him some rags and to clean his clothes. He refused. In a strange way, he was scared to wash it off because then he would be washing her away. Irrational as it was, it terrified him to let go of her in any manner.

Instead, he kept his eyes raised, scanning the hospital bustling around him from the aftermath of the explosion. This was the second thing that Spencer hated. The survival of many offered a hope he was scared to grasp hold of. In a way, he resented their good health, and he even hated himself for it. He had come to save her, not them, but now she was the only one fighting for breath. Why her? Why did every good thing get stripped from him? Why did he—

A woman wearing a chef's coat came sliding around the corner. Her shoes squeaked in protest at her lack of poise. Her silky black hair did its best to keep up with her as she pounced on the nurse's desk.

"Amelia Madden," she huffed out. The nurse pointed a finger in Spencer's direction, which was only a few doors down the hallway. The woman's head swiveled to follow her finger and her hand immediately covered her mouth at the sight of Spencer Reid. She stumbled towards him with tears in her eyes.

Spencer stood as she approached, the dried blood cracking at his movements. "Marcie Rissi?" He asked softly.

She nodded then choked out, "Is she... is she..."

"They haven't come out of the operating room yet," he began slowly. "She lost a lot of blood and likely suffered from several different injuries. The chances of surviving a gunshot wound in the leg considering the rate she reached the hospital and the placement of the wound itself are high. I trust the numbers."

"You don't look like you do," Marcie remarked. Her voice was harsher than she intended but dripping with worry.

"I do," he snapped back.

Marcie sighed and rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to... I'm just scared."

"So am I." He sighed.

She slowly approached the man and sank down into the seat next to him. Spencer followed suit.

Spencer began to nervously fidget with his fingers and licked his lips. "I'm, um, Dr. Spencer Reid. Not that kind of doctor though. I'm with the F--"

"Yes, I know who you are," she said with a weak but friendly smile. "Has her family been contacted?"

Spencer nodded. "Garcia, the woman you talked to, she's contacting all next of kin. I asked her to contact you as well."

"Her family is from Illinois, so they won't be here for a while." She threw a glance at him. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Of course."

"Pretty terrible way to meet," Marcie forced a chuckle in an attempt to lighten the tension in the room. Spencer responded with a forced tight-lipped smile and a curt nod. "Yeah." Neither bothered to say anymore. Any words of comfort felt empty.

Marcie became suddenly intrigued with the clock hanging in front of them. She was convinced the seconds were slower than they should be. Mille e uno, mille e due, mille e tre. They were slower than they should be. Something was wrong with the clock. It must need new batteries. There was no way that time could be passing that slowly.