Retribution, A Spencer Reid/Criminal Minds Fanfic

Chapter 22. Worlds Apart

Rossi was simultaneously fascinated and horrified to varying degrees. The two reactions see-sawed, alternately attracting and repulsing.

Like a crime scene, it exerts a magnetic effect. Something you hate, but  you have to study it, figure it out. He grimaced. Oh, who are you kidding, Rossi? It’s the car accident you rubberneck as you pass by. Just…weirder, is all.

He swallowed a trace of nausea as he watched the doctor work.

The elderly man sat on the edge of the bed, one hand resting across Hotch’s forehead, the other pressed against his chest. Rossi wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen. Now, he realized he’d thought it would be like a Hollywood special effect; the bruises would gradually disappear in a classic, cinematic fade-out. But it wasn’t like that at all.

It was terrible.

Once the doctor had announced he was starting, there had been nothing of note for several minutes. Then Rossi noticed Hotch’s shallow respiration increase. A faint sheen of perspiration glimmered across his skin. Rossi squinted.

No, not perspiration. The skin of his torso was changing. What he’d mistaken for normal sweat was layers of tissue almost…effervescing. Rossi tried to liken it to something he could grasp. The best he could come up with was a coating of flesh-colored wax applied over Hotch’s body that fizzed in miniscule bubbles at some points and went diamond-clear at others. Beneath the clear patches he could see crystalline strands in hues that reminded him of blood or raw, exposed muscle tissue. Like fibrous threads, they moved; recombining, building and meshing on top of each other, shooting across spaces to fuse at each other’s ends.

Mesmerized by the constant movement, Rossi didn’t notice at first when the edges of the bruises began to recede. They didn’t fade. They moved inward with a rolling motion toward what he suspected was the point where the bullet had struck Hotch hardest, embedding itself in Kevlar and sending shock waves of damage into the body beneath.

Hotch’s breathing became harsher and more labored. Rossi heard the doctor murmuring soft words, but couldn’t make them out. Afterwards, he would realize that the deeper movements of his friend’s chest were proof of the effectiveness of the doctor’s methods. But as it was happening before his eyes, it was more abhorrent than reassuring.

When the flesh on the thigh wound began to emulate what the bruises had done, but on a deeper, larger, more visible level, Rossi felt his gorge rise. He had to turn away for a moment. This is Aaron. This is his leg. Make it stop.

“You may leave, if you wish.” The doctor’s voice was soft, but certain. No trace of exertion betrayed the calm understanding in his words. He rendered no judgment.

“He’s my friend. I’ll never leave him.”

Rossi closed his eyes for a brief moment and whispered a reminder to himself from his own past; something from which he’d drawn strength when frightened. “Never leave a man behind. Never leave a man behind.” He took a few deep breaths and turned back just in time to see shreds of flesh merge over the filled-in thigh wound, closing it with a quiet, wet, sucking susurration. The sound almost made him feel ill again.

Then everything was still and silent. Nothing moved except the slow, even, deep rhythms of Hotch’s chest and ribs. Normal, peaceful breaths of a man asleep. The doctor waited a few minutes, then sat straighter and gave his own heavy sigh. He moved his hand away from where it had rested over his patient’s heart. Rossi saw a whitish handprint marked the area. He frowned, remembering Morgan claiming to have seen something similar the first time they’d brought Hotch off the mountain and into this settlement.