Wheels Down| Spencer Reid

1

The weather doesn't play in favor of the Behavioral Analysis Unit most days. Sometimes it's raining, sometimes it's so hot I can feel my brain baking inside my skull.

I was right seven years ago, like I usually am. Most plane crashes aren't caused by turbulence; turbulence does nothing but make us anxious or sick, in most cases.

Thunderstorms cause most plane crashes, but serial killers don't check the weather before they embark on their killing sprees. They don't care how bad the flight is from the East Coast of Virginia to California.

I'm not a bad flyer. I've been on two flights a week for the past fifteen years of my life. I've honestly spent more time on the jet than I have in my own car.

I was never prepared to hear the loud beeping from the cabin meaning the signals were lost. I was never prepared to actually use the oxygen masks that we'd been reminded of every time we boarded this jet.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sinking feeling in my stomach when I felt the plane dangerously drift towards the ground.

-

I wake up to the sound of David Rossi's screaming. The first thing I can sense is pain- my entire body is aching, but pain is shooting down my right leg. I look around.

The jet is empty, besides me. Half of the roof has been torn off, but besides that, most everything in here is still in tact. I can feel rain pummeling down on my head from the open space in the roof.

I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Rossi?" I shout. Like I'm half-expecting to, I hear no response. I feel like I'm in a waking dream; everything is fuzzy: my vision, my hearing. It doesn't feel real.

I repeat myself, but louder. "Rossi?"

Still, nothing. I can't hear him anymore. I don't know if it's because of the ringing or if he's actually quiet. Where is everyone?

I try to stand up, but I've grossly underestimated how painful trying to walk would be. I stumble into the seat in front of me, but I've decided I need to get off of this plane.

I ignore the pain as I use the seats that are left to pull myself forward.

I grab a first aid kit out of an open cubby that I assume I would definitely need. I could live with feeling like this, but from what I heard Rossi must be much worse off.

"Rossi?" I yell once again. When I get to the front door of the jet, I thank whatever gods there are that the stairs are still attached.

The ringing in my ears is starting to subside. I try to listen for any sign of my friends, but I can't hear any, until I find Davis Rossi. He's laying down a few feet from the plane's exit. I see a lot of blood, so I scramble to get to him with the first aid kit. "Rossi! Are you okay?"

"Kid," he whispers. "Go find them. I'll be fine."

"Find who? Where is everybody?" I ask. I ignore what Rossi told me to do and start looking for something that can be useful.

Because most of the blood is on his shirt, I ask Rossi to lift his shirt up. The little medical training I've gathered from various books might not be fantastic, but I feel like trying to help him is a better idea than not.

He lifts up his shirt and I can see a huge gash in his stomach. It's grotesque- a worse injury than I've ever seen a living human being have.

I don't think I can stop the bleeding with ace bandages and Neosporin, but I have to try. "Is it that bad?" Rossi asks.

"Y-yeah." I take the small bottle of rubbing alcohol from the sad excuse for a first aid kit and uncap it.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Sanitizing it. If the blood loss doesn't kill you, an infection-"

"No. Don't you dare come near me with that."

I stare at him with a blank expression. Does he want to die? Maybe he's afraid of the stinging pain.

I look Rossi dead in the eyes as I poor rubbing alcohol onto his wound. I flinch as he grits his teeth, trying to find a way to process the pain.

I take a gauze pad and stick it over the gash, but besides what I've already done, there's nothing more I can do. "I'm going to try to move you, okay?" I say.

"Kid, no offense, but you can barely lift your own suit case. I can walk."

I watch as Rossi half-craws over to the side of the jet. He sits with his back against the dented metal. "I'll be fine here. Go find everyone else," he repeats.

I sigh, but he's right. It's not a great use of my time to be watching him when I could be finding the rest of my team.

I realize I still have my messenger bag. I dig through it, hoping to find something- anything that would help, but all I find is my bottle of water. I set it down next to him and he gives me a face.

Even in this condition, Rossi is still Rossi.

A/N: so far, are you enjoying?