Evolution, a Spencer Reid/Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 47. Rossi's Revenge, Part II

Morgan decided that, as disturbing as it was to see Hotch hospitalized, it was worse to see him cry. And when both conditions occurred simultaneously, his comfort zone was so far behind him, it was merely the ghost of the memory of a speck in the rearview mirror.

“Ahhhh, Hotch. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He didn’t really know what was wrong. He just wanted it to stop.

When a soothing voice intruded from the hallway, Morgan was endlessly grateful.

“Now, what’s going on here…you should be fast asleep for a while, yet.”

The doctor who had informed them of Hotch’s condition entered the room. Without hesitation, he laid the charts he was carrying down and sat on the edge of the bed. As he talked, he smoothed away his patient’s tears, applying gentle pressure as he ran a thumb over each eye in turn.

“This’s a good thing, anyway.” His voice continued low and almost affectionate. “When you first came in, you didn’t have enough moisture in you to make tears. This is mu-u-uch better.” The doctor had honed his ability to sense what people felt and needed, born of long service to the health of his community and its wayward visitors who needed him far too frequently. He assessed Hotch and decided that this was a man who drew comfort from being touched.

Probably never got enough of that kind of love growing up.

After wiping the tears away, he rested his hand at the side of his patient’s face, stroking the same large, worn thumb over the cheekbone until some measure of control had been restored.

“I was telling your friends you’re very lucky to be here.” The doctor moved his hand lower, still sending a message of care and solace through touch, tracing Hotch’s collarbone in soothing, repetitious strokes. He studied the injured man for a few minutes. Clearly, he was deeply troubled.

“It’s nothing, son. You know, I’ve seen men who’ve been through a lot less than you cry on-and-off for hours…days, even. It’s partly that you’re exhausted; your reserves are used up…gone. It’s partly the pain of your injuries.” He sighed. “But mostly, I think you cry because you realize how easy it is to die. Doing it in the wilderness with your only company being the thought that you’re alone and no one will ever learn what happened to you…Well, I think that’s the worst part of it. And I think that’s worth a few tears. More than a few.”

The doctor continued the slow movement over Hotch’s collarbone. His patient’s eyes kept flicking toward his friend, the man who had carried him in. Something else is eating at him. Something bad enough to make him wake up when he should have slept for hours yet. After a few more minutes, the doctor gave him a final pat. Standing up with a groan as his knees objected, he looked down at a calmer, but still troubled, man.

“Well, if you’re not going to sleep, I’ll let you talk to your friend. Five minutes. That’s all you get. And I’ll be back…” He checked his watch. “…in exactly five with some food and something to help you rest.” He looked over the tops of his half-lens, Santa-glasses with mock severity. “It’ll be your choice: eat or sleep. But mark my words, young man, you’ll do one or the other and not much else for the next two days. Understood?”

Hotch nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” His voice was hoarse, dehydration still affecting his throat and vocal chords.

The doctor smiled down at him. He cocked his head toward the hall, indicating Morgan should follow. When they were outside the doorway, he spoke softly.

“Five minutes. I know it’s not much time, but try to get him to tell you what’s bothering him. He needs to rest and I don’t want him worrying himself awake every two hours. Okay?”