Warnings/Spoilers: None
Summary: For once, it is Morgan who's lying in that hospital bed. Character study. Strictly friendship, thank you.
It is bad.
Morgan has two bullets in his chest. It can't get any worse than that.
Other than the fact that they're all huddled in a waiting room -one so similar, so same as all the others- everything is quite fine. They have caught the bad guys. They have saved people; they have righted the world again. But Morgan is on the operating table, and it seems to them like no amount of right can undo this wrong.
Apparently, this is the price, because apparently, you can't have everything.
Morgan isn't suppossed to be lying in a hospital bed. If anything, he's the one that sits beside it; is the first to smile when the peril is subdued; is the one who shows more than Hotch, but who's perhaps even stronger than him. Morgan is the one who makes them all feel safe.
Now, he's not here. The world has fallen out of orbit; it rolls uncontrollably with dizzying speed, and Reid wraps his arms even tighter around his stomach to suppress the nausea. He cannot hear the high-pitched hiccups that escape from Garcia's lips every few seconds as she tries in vain to still the shaking of her hands. He cannot see the way Hotch, Rossi and Prentiss sit as silent and unmoving as ancient statues, as if waiting in hospital rooms to hear the verdict on their injured friend is what they do on a daily basis, but there's an extra crease on that forehead, a sharper edge around those eyes, a glassy look framed by those thick eyelashes.
Reid isn't really aware whether he's sitting or standing.
Morgan has two bullets in his chest, and at some indeterminable moment, the world has altogether ceased to exist.
When a surgeon in dishevelled blue scrubs walks in, Reid barely even registers it. He looks up -so he's been sitting- and only half-hears it as the surgeon informs them about the operation. From the bits his brain miraculausly manages to comprehend, they have successfully removed the bullets. The rest Reid gathers from the reactions of his teammates. Garcia's hands fly to her mouth as her face crumbles. Rossi hangs his head. Prentiss closes her eyes and sighs, and Reid can almost hear the string of curses crossing her mind. Hotch asks even more questions to the man in scrubs, and steps out with him.
It doesn't take a genius to know that it is not good.
Bad news wash over him like an unwelcome but wonted rainfall. Bad news is a part of his job, a part of his life.
So is Morgan.
For one heartbeat, Reid is tempted to look around for him.
The beat after is when the world magically reappears and comes crushing down on his head, breaking to pieces at his feet. He stands up, and walks out of the room.
/
He feels the cold night breeze assaulting his torso. He doesn't shiver.
He sees the night view stretching before him; a city of lights under the dark sky.
There's a full cup of cold coffee sitting next to him on the wooden bench.
And that is all that there is.
/
At some point, and the only thing he can say about it is that it's still night time, someone moves the cup of coffee away and sits down beside him. It's Hotch, though Reid has no idea idea how he knows it, because he hasn't turned to look.
"How are you holding up?" Hotch asks quietly. It's the kind of quiet people instinctively retreat to on sites where death hangs over. It's the kind of quiet Hotch rarely ever uses.
Reid doesn't answer. Everything's still, and he doesn't want to break the spell. It's (almost) peaceful; to be suspended in time. Caught hung-up in the air. Unmoving. Unchanging.
It's almost safe.
"The doctor's said we can see him," Hotch says next. "The others are already in his room."
The subtle proposition is enough to accelerate Reid's heartbeat. No, no, no, no-
He shakes his head and pretends not to have heard.
"Reid," Hotch presses, turning to him with no doubt an expression of genuine concern, "are you all right?"
Before Reid can think of anything to say -think? He can't think even if he wants to- a harsh sound rips free from his throat. It's something desperately caught between a chuckle and a sob. For some reason, it eases through laughter, and Reid laughs, a mirthless, haunted laugh. He still won't look at Hotch. The idea of visiting Morgan, of seeing him unconscious, lying in a hospital gown, terrifies him in a way no unsub has ever yet to manage.
"It... is not hopeless," Hotch offers. Each word is voiced so forcibly that the sentence crumbles in on itself. It doesn't mean a thing, but Hotch continues nevertheless. "They say that the next twenty-four hours are crucial. If he holds on until then..."
"... there is hope," Reid hears himself complete the sentence. His voice sounds bitter, but he doesn't necessarily feel it. He knows that Hotch doesn't believe his own words, either.
The unvoiced despair hangs in the air between them like a cloud of smoke. Dark. Taunting. Insubstantial.
Real.
Next thing he knows is Hotch's hand gently squeezing his shoulder. "Come with me," he says softly. For some reason, the kind tone in his bosses voice reaches through Reid. He stands up, almost hypnotically, and without a thought, allows himself to be guided back inside the walls.
/
It is the hardness of the ground beneath his feet that he feels first.
The chemical stench.
The suffocating feel of indoors after the freedom in the night air.
The tremor that travels the lenght of his body and settles permanently on his fingers.
Before he can feel more, he's reached Morgan's room.
/
Standing there, lingering awkwardly just within the doorstep, carefully distant from the bed and its unaware occupant, is like being sent to the principle's office. It's a strange thing to feel like, because Reid's never had that experience, and yet he is sure that his fear of taking the three steps to close the distance between himself and Morgan is far greater than that of the guilty student.
What's stranger still is that he can't look away from him.
This isn't the Morgan that Reid knows. Morgan doesn't need a ventilator to breathe. The thought is so absurd -that Derek Morgan of all people needs a machine to do something as easy as breathing- and Reid takes those three steps and approaches the bed just to prove himself that he is wrong, of course Morgan doesn't need a ventilator to breathe.
Reality is, he does.
With shaking legs, Reid collapses onto the hard chair aside the bed, and stares. His breaths start to get thinner each time he sucks in air, like his lungs have suddenly forgotten how to function. He can draw in air alright, but he can't let it out and his chest begins to rise, rise, rise, rise, and there's no room in him for more -and how absurd it is!- because it is Morgan who needs help with breathing, not him, but surely he'll die here anyway, with his own racing heartbeat pulsing through his skull and the cold sweat that drenches him all over and he thinks-
-this is not the time to die!
With one long, shaky breath, he finally eases all the air out.
"Morgan," he says towards the bed. Morgan won't answer, but Reid feels like the word has reached its collocutor, and it stills the tremors a bit. He pulls the chair even closer to the bed and both hands firmly grasp Morgan's forearm.
"Morgan," he says again. He can't seem to say anything more. His fingers squeeze Morgan's arm, rather out of his own accord, but Reid needs that. To reassure himself that Morgan is still, indeed, here.
It is the world without Morgan that Reid can't think of. It is the single idea which terrorizes his mind.
"Please, Morgan," he says, fingers suddenly relaxing as a wave of exhaustion robs him of all energy. His voice is even, casual, if not very quiet. "Please," he says, "don't die."
He watches his friend's -his best- his first and only best friend's - face for a while. He lets go of the muscular arm he's been holding, and sits back.
Like a wandering soul at the borders of purgatory, he waits for the world to return to normal.