Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds or its characters. No profit has been made from this work of fiction.
So, this was churned out in about an hour (and that probably shows) as a last-minute Valentine's Day present for a friend. It's not meant to be taken seriously or analyzed too thoroughly because this is a light-hearted holiday and things can be silly once in a while, right?
AND SOMETIMES YOU JUST WRITE THINGS WITHOUT PRE-PLANNING OR RESEARCH, SO THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED HERE.
Morgan surveys the lines of text over and over again, unconscious of the way they begin to blur into fuzzy gray stripes. His eyes burn and his back screams from sitting upright in this office chair for so long.
How many hours has it been? It's with pointed determination that he does not look up at the clock because truthfully he does not want to know.
His thumb continues to flick the side of the plastic pen dangling between his fingers until it dislodges completely, dropping with a thud and then doing a half-roll into the creased center of the manila folder. It's a small disturbance, but enough to break whatever concentration he'd had, and Morgan slumps hard into the back of his chair. He closes his eyes, pushing the heels of his palms into the sockets before running both hands down his face.
There's a knock at the door, and Morgan knows instantly who it is, so he makes no move to straighten or organize.
"Yeah," is all the invitation he gives.
Reid opens the door just enough to poke his head in, and Morgan is thankful he's smart enough not to say "how's it coming?" or "make any progress?". Morgan thinks Reid must understand how quickly an ink pen can become a dart and someone's face a target.
For a moment, Reid sort of fidgets in the doorway, seemingly unsure of what to do, so Morgan relocates his posture and pulls himself back up in the chair with a sigh. "If you hurry, you can still catch a ride with Prentiss. I have a feeling I'm gonna be here all night."
Morgan had avoided admitting that to himself, but saying it aloud pretty much sealed the deal.
Rather than ducking out, however, Reid instead steps inside. "She doesn't have the authority to keep you here against your will," he says, shutting the door behind him so he can lean against it.
"Strauss isn't keeping me here." Morgan can't quite find it in himself to muster up a laugh, and so it comes out more as a huff. He resumes his overview of the case file, or at least tries to, and isn't surprised when the ache rushes back to his eyes. "It's her damn deadlines."
His own fault, Morgan knows. The workload was a result of negligence and bad time-management. He would never make fun of Hotch for carrying those boxes of files onto the jet again. Apparently he had the right idea.
The next few minutes pass in ear-ringing silence. Growing up in the city taught Morgan to tolerate noise and disruption, require it, even. He can maintain a clear thought process with construction going on next door. He can analyze a suspect's behavior from head to toe while said suspect screams his eardrums bloody.
Morgan can't, absolutely cannot, successfully work in an environment so quiet that the quiet itself became the noise.
Honey, you'll never be able to work a desk job. You can't sit still long enough to read the funnies.
He flips the folder shut, uncaring of the contents spilling from the side, and twists his body into a stretch before folding his arms behind his head, reclining. He has half a mind to throw his feet up on the desk too, but he's already proven his mother right once. Morgan will pretend to have manners to keep it from becoming twice.
Reid hasn't budged from his spot at the door and it's taken Morgan this long to realize it. One of his feet is undoubtedly leaving a nasty print against the wood, and Reid would be sure to notice this had he not been so fixated on the dull carpet. His arms are crossed in front of him, lilac sleeves still rolled up from earlier, and Morgan can see where his skin is peppered with goosebumps.
Most telling, however, is the thumbnail Reid seems to be unconsciously chewing on. It's a rare habit, Reid confessed once to him, one that he had to break himself of in elementary school because no one wanted to share crayons with the kid who bit his nails.
It still surfaces from time to time, on rare occasions, when he's in deep thought and doesn't already have something in his hand to tinker with.
"Hey," and that's why Morgan's voice softens only slightly, "What's bothering you?"
Almost instantly Reid pulls his thumb from his mouth, discreetly wiping it along his pants before an embarrassed flush can reach his cheeks. "It's just-" his eyes flicker to Morgan's briefly and he steps away from the door, parking himself at the window and looking out into the empty bullpen. "That unsub-Ashley Carson-she could have shot me. Should have, really, according to the profile. Eighty-eight percent of long-distance serial killers take that first available shot because they're compelled to. I was out in the open, with my back to her, with the police squad just thirty feet away. She saw the opportunity and she knew the type of panic it would cause, but she chose not to shoot."
When Reid turns back around, his gaze is unwavering and it's obvious he's waiting for some type of response. Morgan's not too sure what he wants to hear. "Wait, are you trying to tell me you're disappointed because you didn't see enough action back there? One Tom Cruise movie and suddenly you're-"
"That's not what I'm talking about!" Reid barks, and it's evident that he's serious. "She...she spoke to me through the CB, and she told me about how she could see me through the scope. She described what I was wearing and what my face looked like as I kept trying to locate her. She told me about how she could put a bullet into the back of my head in less than a second, how easy it would be to do. And then she told me why she wasn't going to do it. Morgan, do you know what she said?"
To spare himself from making another joke, Morgan keeps his mouth shut and quirks an eyebrow.
"She said I was too predictable. She said my movements were too predictable and that it would be no fun for her. Then she started taunting me. She would yell out directions-left, right, up, down-at the same time I'd think to move, and she was always correct. Always, Morgan. Morgan am I-do you think I'm predictable?"
Reid must see something he doesn't like in Morgan's expression, because he whirls around and immediately begins rotating the blinds shut to first one window, then the other.
"Oh come on, kid. You're letting an unsub psych you out. You're not predictable. Hell, I never know what's gonna come out of your mouth, just that it'll involve numbers and probably be information I can go my whole life without knowing." Morgan watches with a growing sense of nervousness as Reid finishes closing the blinds, then approaches him at the desk. "Spencer, what are you doing?"
The file he'd been working on, along with a stack of others, find themselves re-situated in a disorderly pile on the floor, courtesy of Reid's hand. Morgan's mouth works to rephrase the question when Reid's body slides into his workspace, feet curling beneath the arms of Morgan's chair and leaving dirty footprints on the cushion.
Hands on his shoulders pull Morgan forward and hot breath puffs the words against his cheek. "Being predictable."
Feel free to point out any glaring mistakes! And I hope everyone enjoys their holiday! For those of you who don't celebrate, I'm with ya to be honest.