The first time Morgan sees it is during a case in Texas.

Reid sits at one end of the table, perching on the very edge of his seat with his knees in line with the edge of the table. Morgan sits at the other, watching his coworker ignoring the commotion of the police station and scribbling incessantly on his map and occasionally pausing to think. He sighs and looks down at the victim files for what seems like the hundredth time that morning, wishing he could have a brain like Reid's and be able to finally crack the case that's been eluding them for weeks now. They've narrowed it down to two suspects with semi-solid alibis. And while the rest of the team are out in the field investigating their possible killers, Morgan is stuck in the police precinct, still recovering from a minor hamstring sprain. A ridiculous reason to be kept out of the field, in his opinion, but an opinion that Hotch doesn't share.

"How are you going with the geographic profile?" he asks Reid with a sigh, rubbing his eyes with ink-stained hands. Predictably, there's no answer - the younger agent is too absorbed in his work to notice Morgan.

"Reid?" he prompts, getting slightly irritated when there's still no answer.

After a few seconds, Reid finally responds. "Mhhmm," he mutters, obviously not hearing a word he's saying.

"Spencer Walter Reid!" Morgan all but shouts, getting up and tapping his coworker lightly on the shoulder. Almost immediately Reid flinches, the force of his sudden movement knocking his messenger bag to the floor. Something small and cylindrical falls from its depths, clattering loudly on the floor and stealing Morgan's attention. He can't quite place the rattling sound that is so familiar to him that he feels he should know, but before he can steal a glance at the mystery object, Reid moves it out of Morgan's view with a swift kick of his feet. The object rolls away under the table, effectively ruining Morgan's chances of identifying it.

"Thought of something?" Reid asks, innocently filling the awkward silence. His face doesn't betray anything out of the ordinary, having schooled it into his usual curious stare.

Morgan struggles to think of something, anything to say, until in a miraculous turn of events, he breaks through. "The electrical work…" he says, frowning. "That's some complicated wiring going on in the chair. Our profile says the unsub wouldn't have that kind of specialist training to create it. If we can track down electricians in the unsub's comfort zone-"

"-We might be able to trace the unsub through the electricians," Reid finishes, immediately grabbing a phone book close to him. "We should have thought of this earlier. Call Hotch, I'll work through the book and find any witnesses."

Morgan nods, pulling out his phone and putting his boss on speed-dial. He decides to give Reid the benefit of doubt and shrug it off. It's probably just a one-time thing anyway.

o o o

As it turns out, it's not just a one-time thing, because the second time Morgan sees it, they're both at a nightclub back in DC.

The team have only been there for about half an hour when Morgan finally notices Reid's absence from the table, having disappeared like a magic trick. They'd found their previous unsub - Morgan's electrician angle had worked out perfectly for them and they'd found their suspect within hours of Morgan's epiphany.

Now, he's getting his groove thang going on the dancefloor, surrounded by a throng of undulating bodies and suggestively-placed hands. JJ's gone off with Garcia and Kate somewhere, while Hotch and Rossi are sitting in a booth, talking animatedly with each other…

…and Reid is nowhere to be seen.

Not unusual of him, Morgan thinks, but his mind flits back to the moment less than twenty-four hours ago when he saw that thing fall out of Reid's bag, and his curiosity is sparked yet again.

"Have you seen Pretty Boy?" he shouts to Hotch , who's fiddling around with his phone with Rossi.

His boss frowns in thought, perhaps just a little drunk. "I think I saw him go that way," he shouts over the thumping music, pointing to a small door lit up by a tiny green exit light. "Leave him alone, Morgan, you know he hates places like this."

He only came tonight because this place sells those shitty little peanut things he loves," Rossi adds, in the sage tone of someone who's had one too many drinks for the night.

"Just checking up on him," Morgan grins, but for some reason he can't quite pin down, it feels hollow. "I'll be right back," he tells them, pushing through the swarm of drunk bodies and stepping out into the cool night air.

Reid's not hard to spot, standing only a few yards away from the door and beginning to raise something to his lips. Before his common sense kicks in and he stops to observe what exactly Reid's doing out here, Morgan goes and stands right beside him. "Hey, what's up?" he asks, wincing internally when Reid jumps half a foot into the air.

Reid's eyes widen almost comically for a second before he stuffs something hurriedly in his pocket. "What? Nothing's up. Are we leaving?" he asks breathlessly, his voice several octaves higher than usual.

Morgan pretends not to notice. "It was just getting a little warm in there. Thought I could use the fresh DC air."

"Not much fresh air here," Reid smiles thinly, and the bitterness it shows looks far to old on him. "Mostly just cigarette smoke and vomit."

"Fresher than most of the crime scenes we visit," Morgan quips, and Reid winces.

"Too soon, man. Too soon," he says, taking in one last deep breath. "Okay, I think I can brave the sea of drunk horny people and go in again. Coming?"

Morgan grins and claps a hand on his friend's shoulder, finally beginning to feel good about his coworker's behaviour again. "I thought you'd never go back in," he grins, and is relieved to hear Reid's laugh for what feels like the first instance in a long time.

Yes, he decides. Reid will be okay.

o o o

It's on another case where Morgan's curiosity finally gets the better of him.

They're in much the same situation they were in the very first time it happened. Reid and Morgan, positioned at either end of a desk, with the rest of the team out questioning witnesses. What's different is Reid suddenly excusing himself, reaching into his bag and walking out the back door of the precinct.

He leaves his messenger bag wide open. A bad idea, when his bag is in the presence of his very nosy coworkers.

He looks left, and then right. There's nobody around to see him invading his coworker's privacy. Nobody to tell tales.

He sighs, and gives into temptation.

There's the standard kind of stuff that Morgan would expect to be in Reid's bag. FBI ID card, wallet, tissues, and an unhealthy amount of Rice Krispie treats. And then there was the other stuff that he didn't quite expect, like the half-empty pack of cigarettes and the unopened bottle of pills. He raises an eyebrow and steals a glance outside; through the glass doors of the precinct, he can just see Reid's elbow poking out from behind the wall. The apparent absence of a lighter in his bag makes Morgan even more sure of what he thinks Reid's doing outside.

Well. This is…unexpected.

He debates whether or not to follow his friend outside. On one hand, Reid's a damn smart guy, and taking up smoking despite knowing all the risks involved is almost dangerously out of character for the younger man. On the other hand, Reid is a very private guy and most certainly won't take well to Morgan lecturing at him on a subject the genius knows a thousand times better than him.

Then again, he's already invaded Reid's privacy pretty badly by going through his personal belongings, so he's not sure how much worse he can do.

He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and sets Reid's bag down exactly how his friend left it before quickly grabbing the bottle of pills as a last-minute thought and joining him outside.

Reid doesn't even attempt to hide the cigarette he holds precariously in between two fingers. The air smells strongly of smoke, and it makes Morgan's eyes begin to tear. Not now, he thinks, blinking them away harshly.

"You figured something out yet?" Reid asks, and to Morgan's semi-surprise, makes clear - almost challenging - eye contact. Go on. I dare you to start lecturing me, he seems to be saying. Unfortunately for Reid, Morgan's all too happy to take him up on his offer.

"You know even better than I do that this isn't healthy." Morgan's statement hangs in the air like a question mark for a few tense seconds, before Reid makes what Morgan likes to call the Kermit face and turns away, throwing away his used cigarette into the bushes nearby.

"And now you're littering," Morgan adds. Reid just raises an eyebrow in response.

"So, why did you deem it necessary to rummage through my bag, Agent Morgan?" His tone is colder, more scathing than Morgan thinks he's ever heard him sound, but his added emphasis on agent is what burns him the most.

"How did you-"

"I have a perfect view of the inside of the precinct from this angle. These are glass doors, Morgan."

Morgan sighs and rubs a hand across his head. "Of course. Always thinking."

"At least you know that about me." Reid's mouth quirks when he sees Morgan's head cock unsurely to the side. "You don't have to say it. I know that's what you're thinking."

"You know, you're a really good profiler."

Reid flashes him a smirk. "I know." He places the lighter neatly back into his pocket, slouching against the precinct wall. "You look like you're going to explode with all those questions. Go ahead. Ask them."

Morgan takes the bait, holding out the bottle of pills he'd found. "These are?"

"Antidepressants. For my, uh, depression that a doctor told me I apparently have."

"And these are?"

"Cigarettes. They're just to take the edge off."

"Take the edge off of what?"

Reid shrugs, face unnervingly blank. "Lots of things, when you're in this line of work."

Morgan sighs and decides to return to the pills. "How long have you been taking these?"

Reid shrugs. "I don't know. A few weeks, maybe."

"Really? Because this bottle looks pretty damn full to me. I'd almost say it looks like it's never been opened."

Reid stays infuriatingly silent.

"Look, Reid, I get it. Sometimes we treat you like a little kid, and I'll admit that's wrong of us. But being diagnosed with depression? In a job like this, that's pretty important for your someone to keep track of. Maybe not me, but Hotch, certainly."

"Who's to say Hotch doesn't already know?"

"Does he?"

Reid rolls his eyes. "No," he admits, "but you still just assumed I hadn't told anyone."

"And I turned out to be right. Guess I'm a pretty good profiler too."

Reid rolls his eyes and folds his arms, looking down at the ground as the silence grows more tense by the second. After what seems like a lifetime, he finally speaks up.

"I don't know what I'm so scared of," he confesses, and Morgan notices the younger man is still picking at his nails incessantly. The skin around them is red and patchy, almost bitten raw. He wonders whether Reid realises he's doing it, and part of him wants to reach out and take Reid's hands, lead them away from his nails. The part of him that respects Reid keeps his hands to himself. "Of taking the pills, I mean."

"You're a profiler. Of course you know," Morgan replies, and it comes out harsher than he intends. Reid doesn't seem to hear the scorn Morgan heard, and instead replies in earnest.

"I think it's that taking the pills would make it feel too real. I told myself nothing was long for the longest time, and that…that just became my reality. Whereas really, I was falling to pieces. And even though I took the time to read studies, brush up on my knowledge, go to a doctor even, I still can't take the pills."

"Because that means you have to face up to it," Morgan says gently, and is relieved when Reid nods somberly.

"The cigarettes were just meant to relieve the stress I was feeling. Am feeling. They work a little too well," his friend admits.

"Six minutes," Morgan reminds him, and Reid groans in response.

"I knew you'd bring that up," he sighs. "That was me - what, six years ago? I've changed since then. Generally, humans do."

"That means you can always change back."

"Look Morgan, don't get me wrong. I want to stop smoking. I want to take those pills. I want to get better," Reid emphasizes. "But right now, I just can't. Not yet. I just don't feel…ready to do it yet," he sighs, taking the pills from Morgan's outstretched hand and examining the prescription label.

"At the end of the day, it's your call. But remember you've got an entire team of FBI agents here to help you," Morgan reminds him.

Reid twists his mouth. "I guess…something like this, I want to try and handle it myself. And it's not because I don't trust this team, because I do. At the end of the day, I'd trust every member of this team with my life. I mean, I have trusted every member, basically. And been right to do so. But…I'd like to prove to myself that I've grown up in the past decade I've been here with this team. To myself and some others."

Morgan nods slowly, squaring his shoulders as he prepares to head back inside. "Fair enough," he replies, giving Reid a smile.

Reid gives Morgan a tiny smile back, and shows Morgan the prescription label on the pill bottle. "Issued February the sixth, 2015. Almost an entire month ago. Today seems like a good time to open it. Don't you think so?"

Morgan smiles and claps Reid on the back at his friend's response. Yes, he decides. Reid will be okay.

And this time, he's certain of it.

o o o

A/N: So, I want to make this a multi-chapter story but I don't really know where to take it next. If you enjoyed this and have ideas of where to take it next, please review and I'll take them into definite consideration when writing the next part! It'll be a while before I'd get around to it due to other priority fics, but I still wanna continue it nonetheless.

If anyone is wondering what Reid's "Kermit face" is, it's that awkward frog face he makes when he does the mouth thing. That semi-cringe, semi-what-the-hell-is-this-shit mouth thing. You know the thing. Definitely inspired by MGG's current Twitter bio.

(also i don't condone smoking nor do i condemn and i didn't write this as some sort of psa because someone's inevitably going to say i had an agenda writing this and i didn't jfc calm down if there was any moral to this it was if you think there's something wrong go get yourself checked out as soon as you can afford it/feel comfortable doing so pls there's no telling what it could be so i guess i did have an agenda but dammit it's a nice agenda right)

Thank you for reading! ; v ;