Desiderium: longing for something that has been lost

Chapter 27

"of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are 'what might have been'"--- kurt vonnegut

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 Las Vegas

February 22, 2008

12:25 am

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At one point in his life, Hotch had a fleeting thought to become a doctor. Medical science interested him, and intricacies of the human body and how they responded the miracles of modern medical magic used to astonish him.

Then he became a FBI agent, and then he saw just what horrors those medical wonders were used for. 

Deep, deep gaping wounds, held together by staples, eyes glazed over with shock, dialysis as the slow flow of the blood moved out, and then slowly moved back into the battered body. 

Any form of awe he had towards the life-saving mechanisms had been slowly dimmed over the years, crushed down by years of dealing with the remnants of the most sadistic minds. He'd never want to stand in another hospital again, never hear the mechanic whirr of the incubator as it pumped air in and out the still chest. 

Yet here he was. 

He hadn't actually moved into the room yet, he could only watch as his chest moved up and down, up and down, up and... he moved into the room.

He brought a chair up the bed, careful of the seemingly endless supplies of leads and tubes, and sat staring at the body in the bed. 

He didn't quite know how to feel. 

He was exhausted, his shoulder ached, and he felt the overwhelming urge to find a quiet, empty room somewhere and just cry.

No. 

He sat up again, unaware that he had sagged against the bed. 

When Haley had given birth, he'd spent the whole time, stiff and uncomfortable. Hospitals gave him an unsettled feeling, like he was intruding on something intensely personal. He'd barely had time to enjoy his baby son, the feeling of eyes looking over his shoulders and the feeling of intense paranoia clawing around his throat. 

Or maybe he just ended up in too many hospitals as a kid, who knows. Childhood trauma is one hell of a motivator.

Somewhere in the room, an alarm beeped shrilly, reminding him that Spencer still had a functioning heart beat in him behind all the tape, and leads, and false breathing, and behind the horribleness of it all.  

His hand poked out amid the debris, two fingers splinted tightly. They hadn't mentioned the broken fingers, and Hotch felt the familiar spur of anger, and deep sadness swirl in him as he ghosted his hand over top the casted hand. 

He allowed himself to glance down at his watch, a feeling of displacement coming over him as he began to wonder truly what time it was. His watch, given to him Haley, (and Jack, but he hadn't been born yet) displayed 12:46 am, and he let out a yawn. Time had no meaning here. You came in and you either got better and went home, or you came in and died. Time stops when you enter, and resumes when you leave. That's how it has always been, and how it always would be. 

A nurse knocked gently on the door, and he jumped. She smiled at him, before placing two fingers gently on Spencer's brachial pulse. Her eyes darted over his vitals on his monitor, before picking his chart up on the end of his bed, and writing down some numbers. She glanced over at Hotch. 

"Would you like a cot or something in here?" She was adjusting the sheets around Spencer, making him more comfortable. Hotch appreciated her immensely.