Every hour, you can come up to the front...
That's what that nurse just told Spencer. He's just hoping that it holds to be true. That there will be updates given to him.
The minutes pass by. Each second passes, and each one is filled with him sitting alone in this waiting room. Sitting here and breathing in the terrifying scent of the hospital; staring at the white walls and scattered chairs around him. And with each antagonizing second, the visual becomes blurred. Blurred and clouded by the tears that continue to well in his eyes.
Before much longer, Spencer hears the worried commotion of the team finding their way into the waiting room.
But what he distinctly hears is the muffled whispers from them — of a conversation, one he's purposefully not being included in.
And although he carries so much love for the team, for them being his true family, all he wants to do right now is yell at them. Yell and tell them the answers to their whispered questions.
Of course, I'm not alright. How could I possibly be alright? The blatant stupidity in the question fuels him with a certain type of rage. Not one of a typical nature, but one stemming from the pain he's experiencing in these dragging moments.
What did he see? I saw the woman I care so much for, being shot and bleeding out. I saw the blood and shock overtake everything I love about her. I saw the monitor to the machine tracking her state of life... flatline—
That's what Spencer saw.
Of course he's not alright.
And his every continuous thought is about you. When breathes in — and smells the scent of the hospital — all he can think about is how he wishes the scent that fills his nose, contaminates his senses, would be you. The sweet scent of your shampoo and skin.
When he feels the air fill his lungs — and feels the panic continue to attack him; the feeling that now makes him feel breathless — all he can think about is how you must have felt. How when you took a breath in after that bullet lodged itself in your chest, you felt an amount of breathless far greater than anything he feels right now.
He can still hear those gasps you let out — as you were lying there on the ground in front of him — the ones of you trying and failing to retrieve more air into your broken lungs. Trying to relieve the crushing feeling of not being able to breathe.
Spencer can't escape you and the fate that's waiting. He can't escape his fucking mind.
"Spencer," JJ calls out, her voice filled with fear. Spencer looks up, up from his shaking legs and scratched palms — scratched all in an attempt to escape his mind. The same mind that holds the bloodied torture of your current state.
She takes a seat in front of him. "Hey," she painfully smiles, "I just need to say something."
Her face contorts into something of a combination of sadness and worry, "I—I know that you aren't alright. I know that none of us are, that we all are scared for Y/N. But I know that you in particular aren't. I can tell. I'm sure anyone could," JJ nods, "And I know that I don't know what you saw or went through with Y/N — after she was shot," she reaches across to place a hand on his. "But what I do know is that you're strong. So strong. You've been through a lot, and because you have, I need you to use that same strength you've used all those other tough times. The same kind that got you through everything else."
JJ's voice grows stronger, less shaky, and sterner, "Because Y/N needs you to be strong for her. She's going to have to be strong-beyond-belief for herself. So she needs that help from you too."
YOU ARE READING
Take Over Me
FanfictionY/N Y/L/N is someone who has never felt true welcomeness. She's been unwelcome since she was a child, even in her own family. When she moves to Virginia and starts her new job with the BAU, she starts to learn what being welcome is really like. Espe...
