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Reid couldn't decide whether it was better or worse that instead of punching a wall Morgan had decided to express his anger by punching a bottled drink machine, denting the plastic frame to the point that it could no longer dispense beverages.
"Morgan, we saved that boy's life today."
"Yeah Reid, we did, but what kind of life will he really have? What will the quality of his life be? What are the statistics on rape victims wishing they had died instead of survived? I'm sure the number is rattling around that big old brain of yours."
"Maybe so, but I doubt that you need me to tell you." Reid didn't say it meanly; in fact, he sounded quite sympathetic. Nonetheless, Morgan's face was now mere millimeters from his own; his smooth chocolate skin was marred with a reddish tint and steam was pouring from his ears, his head the roaring engine of a speeding locomotive.
"Say it again," Morgan threatened, backing Reid up against a row of lockers.
"I'm sorry Derek," he whispered, afraid to maintain eye contact but knowing that he owed the man that much.
"Sorry that you said it because you're truly sorry or sorry because you're afraid your face is about to become a matching set with the vending machine."
"Sorry because I'm truly sorry that I said it."
"But that's what you honestly thought . . ."
". . ."
"Answer me!"
"Yes." This time Reid's answer was barely audible.
Morgan's fist collided with the locker directly beside the genius' head, angry tears clouding his vision. "Fuck you!"
"Morgan . . . I'm sorry I'm such an idiot . . . socially . . . that . . . that I always say the wrong things . . . but . . . but I want you to know that . . . that I'm glad that you survived . . . not that you had to survive it I mean . . . but that you are here . . . in existence . . ."
The older agent's forehead came to rest on his shoulder and he didn't comment when he felt a wet spot forming on his shirt.