It was silent.
Not the silence that you hear in a classroom while a test is being taken, or the quietness when you're home alone after a hard day at work with all of the stress and people and-
No. It was purely silent.
The water sloshed around his weightless body, his presence completely docile to the silent tank in which he was swimming. The gentle drone of his brain began to fade as he swam farther into the large space.
He was beginning to be weighed down from the job. His nine year anniversary was coming up, and he was practically worn down. He didn't hate the job, necessarily. It was a subtle compromise to his real dream, being a superhero, but it was closer than anything else that was in reach. He'd been to all 50 states, often amazed by the ambiance that only the cases they got could provide. It was a nomadic and tedious lifestyle, he'd admit, but it was quite nice nonetheless.
But, now, as he was floating in the clearest water he'd even been in, it was almost... grueling to hear nothing but quiet as he tampered around in the gravity-less space. He'd begun a new hydraulic way of training for the BAU, as their gym was beginning to crowd with new agents and tech analysts. There were large tanks, 100 by 50 foot, installed at the very bottom of the building. It was just like a pool, but full to the brim, and you had to be equipped with scuba-diving gear to swim in it due to the lack of air. Morgan, being the brave and cocky man he was, decided to go for it. Why not?
He was quite used to the humming of mechanics in his ear for undercover missions, or even the splashing of other humans in pools for his training in the gym pool. Yet, still. The silence was all that was heard from the ears of the agent.
He felt the gentle tug of the oxygen tube on his back; even more so, the drag of the air-tanks that pulled him toward the reflective ground. It would take some getting used to.
A wave of sad energy washed over him (no pun intended), and he began to rethink his decision.
They'd warned him too. They'd said, "Morgan, people tend to go crazy in the tank, y'know. It drives 'em mad."
He ignored them, of course. As stubborn as he was, stubborn and robust- the makings of a man, his father kept to telling him. Yeah, he picked fights with people, brawling for fun, it was incredible that he hadn't gotten in trouble more often. The BAU had fixed him up, but that visceral need for violence was still there.
The second he stepped in the tank, though. It was a feeling of both fear and incredulousness, pure anxiety, that set him straight. He'd never felt anything like it. Yeah, the air tanks on his back were pulling him petulantly toward the bottom... but it was something more.
In all of his years of traveling to arrest the bad guys, all of the times that he's built up his profiling prowess... It had never been so hard to breathe. To continue the mission, to continue the fight. It was his responsibility now, after all. To check if everything in the tank, all of the sea-diving machinery, was intact and working properly.
He liked to imagine that his work wasn't in vain, that what he did wasn't without a purpose and for a small unjust reason.
It was a small fantasy, that he worked on the BAU for a more vindictive purpose. One that sociopaths and actually interesting people had in common. As others would play cards when they were bored, he'd imagine the weightlessness of catching serial killers and being able to tell them where they went wrong.
It began on a whim, as he could recall, after watching a simple documentary about the FBI. Of course, he'd never expected it to be so terrifying
He'd entered the world of profiling with a sense of apathy. A bit of nonchalant energy, and then he began to actually "get into it", as a career.
He kicked his legs calmly, eyes searching through the too-clear water, blinking rapidly at the reflectors on the machines below.
'There's no need to be scared,' he told himself inwardly, willing himself to swim farther into the tank. He was never one to complain when he was on duty. That wouldn't be professional.
However, it wasn't entirely professional for him to have this painful uncertainty in the solitary confinement of the water-filled 'Tupperware'. His emotion swayed from terrified to pessimistic pretty fast and stopped all movement. He could just imagine that any people watching from out of the tank would look like, their faces etched in confusion and concern.
He himself watched as he sunk closer and closer to the machines below. For the pure magnitude of mechanics in the enclosed space, there was literally no sound. At all.
There was only a small thud that resounded as he hit the ground. Morgan could only faintly hear an ancestor of an echo in the tank. He glanced up at the mirrored walls, knowing that there were people glaring in, spectators and facilitators, that probably didn't need this set back in their business.
Bubbles drifted upward as he sighed yet again into his mouthpiece. For a brief moment, he considered unhooking the air-tanks, just to be a bit more free to move about the large space. He shook his head, dismissing his own idea.
How stupid, his brain whispered.
He flipped a switch on the ground, the thing he was to do the whole time, and pushed off the cold floor. His hands shook, insanely fast for the pressure of the water pressing down on top of him. He was a bit scared, even though he knew that he shouldn't. It was a matter of the silence and the stillness that he'd never experienced before. It was a new feeling, something other than fear and embarrassment- maybe even a mesh of the two.
He was afraid, for he didn't ever get scared (his father made sure to condition and chase the fear away), and he was embarrassed because 'men weren't made to feel that way'.
"Keep it together, Morgan," he thought, mind blurred by the equipment that he was tethered to. To keep him alive.
Abruptly, a sensation similar to static filled his senses and he raised his head, watching the bubbles rise for a bit before pushing off and beginning to swim calmly upward. In a few moments, his actions changed from leisurely to panicked. He clawed helplessly at the water that surrounded him, pressing down and halting his attempts at going up and contradicting him.
Realization had dawned on Morgan, and his eyes widened, his attempts to get to the surface even more desperate. He was losing oxygen. And fast.
The static began to ascend from his toes to his ankles, his knees then filled with the imaginary liquid sensation- the last thing you feel before death, he recalled.
It was in a scary story that he read as a kid. One that you were supposed to read in the dark "for effect". It was one of those things that you'd laugh at because it'd never happen in real life. Well, obviously not.
He was halfway to the top as the static reached his waist. It was beginning to feel challenging to move his legs, but he refused to give up. He hoped quietly that people outside would see his struggle, but there was still no one in sight, and no show of any actions taking place.
What was most frightening, though, was the continuing silence that eerily crept through his every particle as the whole scene went down.
He tried to scream, but as he opened his mouth, the mouthpiece that was feeding him oxygen fell from his mouth and drifted toward the reflective bottom.
A dark figure plunged into the surface above him as his vision began to blur with exhaustion, light-headedness, and tears.
He muffled a sigh and frantically clawed toward the surface more desperately as the static reached his chin...
"Oh, Morgan," Reid whispered, voice bouncing off the center's locker room as he continued prying the wetsuit off of Morgan's shaking body.
They were good enough friends to be naked in front of each other, so Reid wasn't fazed by the sight as Morgan pulled the soaked garment off and tossed it to the side. They'd shared many a hotel room in their days.
"I'm so sorry, I don't know... it was so lonely in there..." he mumbled breathlessly, slipping on a pair of underwear.
Reid nodded, wrapping a towel around his friend's shoulders as well as his own, "I know. You've never seemed so lost, especially not when you're training. Hotch is kind of upset, though, said you could have died if I hadn't jumped in. I told 'em you were going through a breakup or something like that."
Morgan smiled over at his friend, "Thanks. For saving me too."
The soaked brunette shrugged, "Hey, it's... what friends do."
There was a stall in the conversation then, both men sitting awkwardly on the cold, steel bench- their freezing, wet shoulders touching as they breathed in silence.
"H-Hey, Morgan?"
"Yeah?" the soaked-to-the-bone agent responded quietly, staring straight ahead into the dark of the locker room.
"What happened in there?" came the small voice, "I mean... you almost died. I thought you went into shock. I had my Epipen ready."
Morgan shook his head, "I don't know, Reid. It was so quiet... it felt so different. I kinda forgot that I was on a mission, y'know? I could've gone to sleep and not worry, it was so peaceful."
A small, sad chuckle fell from Reid's mouth, "You almost did."
"Reid-"
The brunette turned and weakly punched Morgan's shoulder, "Do you know how hard that was to watch? You were on one side of the glass, and I was on the other. Too much like Pyramus and Thisbe for me to feel comfortable. You were sinking to the bottom, and everyone was talking about how you were going to lose consciousness, which I couldn't let happen. The management was giving up on you, Morgan. Giving up. Some leader Hotch is, let me tell you. Leaving it to the weakling to save their best agent..."
Morgan chuckled quietly, "I don't know that the hell you were thinking, kid. I could've made it without-"
"You were unconscious, Morgan. How were you going to swim yourself up thirty feet while asleep, unless you're a hardcore sleep-swimmer," Reid snapped, punching his shoulder again.
More silence.
"Reid, what happened?" Morgan asked quietly, wrapping the towel tighter around himself.
The small brunette ran his fingers through his tangled, wet hair and sighed, "Aside from the medical and psychological aspects, I have no clue."
"Do you think I'm fired?" Morgan asked, a bit more relaxed, causing Reid to laugh weakly.
"No doubt."
The two men laughed loudly, bodies practically convulsing as they let out all of their anger and fear and anxiety out as relieved happiness. The worst was finally over.
"We can go home now," Reid whispered, helping Morgan up and shoving an outfit into his chest.
"You do know that your clothes are totally wet, right?" Morgan asked, looking his small friend up and down.
"Yeah. Be lucky that today wasn't my sweater vest day, Morgan. You would have owed me."
Morgan nodded, "I can still owe you. I have some spare clothes. You don't have to stay wet."
Reid sighed, "I'm... little, Morgan. I would look like a dwarf in your clothes. You know this."
Not a moment later was he shoved back by a pile of clothes, "I don't care. You are not getting sick on me, Reid."
The pouting brunette sighed and slipped off his shirt, "You're lucky I love you."
Morgan smiled, "I know, Reid. I know."