Some oneshots of your favorites!
I write for:
- Avengers/MCU
- Criminal Minds
- Harry Potter
- Star Wars
- The Originals
- The 100
- Twilight
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I own none of these characters. All rights go to their respective creator:
- Stan Lee (Avengers/MCU)
...
DISCLAIMER: I am not a doctor (clearly) so whatever this doctor says/happened to the reader is probably (definitely) medically incorrect, so use your imagination for my sake please.
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★・・・・・・★
It's been nearly a week since the doctors had induced a coma, and Hotch rarely has left your side. Strauss, understanding how fragile Hotch is right now, has given him all the time he needs off. JJ has been taking care of Jack, who comes to visit you every day. He doesn't quite understand what's going on or why you won't wake up, but, as he told JJ, "he'll wait."
They stopped feeding you the medication keeping you in a coma earlier today, stating that you've healed enough that your body can heal more while awake. While it should have given Hotch hope, it did nothing.
"Hotch, here," Prentiss says, handing Hotch a bottled water. He takes it numbly, his heavy eyes not leaving your unmoving figure. "How is she?"
"The same," he replies dejectedly. Prentiss sighs, holding back her own worry for your survival odds.
"She'll be all right, Hotch," Prentiss says, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"What if she's not?" he asks quietly. "What if the last time I told her I loved her was while she was bleeding out?"
"Don't think like that."
"I can't go through this again, Emily. I..." he trails off. "I love her too much to let her go."
"She won't go anywhere," Prentiss assures. "She's a fighter." Hotch nods, unable to do anything else. "Would coffee be better?" Hotch nods again, and Prentiss leaves to get him some. Hotch puts the water on the bedside table and puts his head in his hands, trying to rid himself of the negative thoughts that have been plaguing him for the past week.
Hotch's eyes droop, exhaustion finally winning.
★・・・・・・★
The first thing you register that there's something in your nose. You wince, annoyed with whatever is restricting your ability to breathe normally. You try to swallow, but you find that you can't—your mouth is drier than the Sahara desert.
You peel your eyes open, brightness assaulting your eyes. You blink a few times, trying to clear the fog from your brain and take in your surroundings.
You're definitely in a hospital, but you don't know why.
And then the pain in your stomach reminds you. You were shot, and the last thing you rememvber was being loaded onto a stretcher before everything went dark.
