What You Say vs. What You Mean

Chapter 3

FYI, I DELETE ANON FLAME SO STOP WAISTING MY TIME AND YOURS!


"We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Think. Think. Think. You can never trust the human mind anyway. It's a death trap."Anthony Hopkins

Morgan didn't sleep a wink. He tried, oh how desperately he tried. He continuously turned full circle in his bed; he laid on his back, rolled on his side, flipped onto his stomach, turned to the other side, then ended up on his back again. He figured that he must have put at least two miles on his feet from pacing and circling the room. He even took two near-scalding showers in hopes that breathing in the steam and feeling the hot stream beating against his tense muscles would calm him enough to at least relax.

He lost count of how many times he tried to call Reid again. Every time he was greeted by the infernal generic automated female voice telling him in her own impersonal way that his lover's phone was still turned off.

Why would he turn his phone off? Did he need me to leave him alone so he could fuck his ex? No. No, he couldn't! He's drunk and exhausted and just wanted to crash. But then why wouldn't he answer the first time I called? I told myself he was in the bathroom. Damn it that still doesn't make sense. He could have called me back. He had to pick up the phone to turn it off anyway, right? Wait, maybe he didn't turn it off, maybe it just died. No, it was on the charger when I left. That thing can hold a charge for days when it's in minimal use. The shower! That's it! He showered after Ethan left and never even heard the phone ring. No, something is still wrong here. Damn you Spencer Reid!

Morgan had never seen Ethan, but Reid had told him what he looked like once. He was about Reid's height and build with long black hair and a short beard. Morgan couldn't stop from picturing a man like that with his hands and whatever else all over HIS Spencer. He considered calling Garcia, the only other team member left in Quantico that weekend, to go check on Reid, but he wasn't so shallow as to pit a mutual friend up against Reid, especially when he couldn't be sure what, if anything, was happening.

And Morgan really had no idea what WAS happening.

WIANWIANWIANWIAN

It was cold, dark, and deathly silent when Reid regained consciousness. His liquor-clouded mind was slow to recall the night's previous happenings, but eventually he remembered every horrible detail of how he ended up naked and bloody on the couch.

It occurred to Reid that he might not be alone. "E-Ethan?" His voice did not come as a shout as he had intended, but a hoarse cracked whisper. He cleared his throat, which resulted in a series of heavy dry coughs. "Ethan?" he called again, this time his voice was clearer but still not as loud as he had hoped. He listened intently. He could now hear the faint sounds of whining and scratching coming from the back door. Reid felt a pang of guilt that poor Clooney had been locked outside all of this time.

All of what time?

Reid glanced across the room at the little red numbers on digital screen of the DVR. It read 5:27 am. Reid realized that he had been unconscious for nearly five hours.

Slowly but surprisingly steadily, he brought himself to a sitting position on the edge of the couch. He held his head in his hands for a minute or so; his temples throbbed with the makings of an atrocious hangover. He took a deep breath and tried to stand, but his legs fell weak beneath him and he gripped the coffee table in order to prevent himself from toppling over. He found his sea legs eventually and was able to stand.

Although he was alone in the house, he felt ashamed and highly self-conscious to be completely naked. He carefully bent over gripping his pounding head in one hand and retrieved his underwear that was lying in a pile at the end of the couch, along with his shirt. Twice he almost fell over, but he managed to step into the boxer-briefs and pull them up his legs. He felt somewhat better with the most intimate parts of his body now covered, so he padded to the back door as quickly as he could manage to let Clooney inside.

The elderly canine darted past him as soon as the door was cracked and made a b-line for the living room. Reid watched the curious black lab sniff around the living room paying special attention to the wastebasket and the bloodstain on the couch. Then Clooney, seemingly having put two and two together, rushed to Reid, whining and sniffing fervently.

Reid gave the dog a small half-hearted smile. "You can tell something's wrong, can't you?"

Clooney let out a defined whimper and looked up at Reid, who nodded in reply and reached down to stroke the top of the animal's head.

Suddenly Clooney began trying to lap at the stream of blood snaking down Reid's abdomen from the re-opened wound in his chest. "Clooney, stop," he scolded and gently pushed the dog's head away, eliciting a whine of protest. He knew Clooney was only trying to help in the way his instincts told him to when a member of his "pack" was injured. Reid looked over to the couch and noticed the drying blood stain. He suddenly could not stand the sight of his own blood. He stepped over Ethan's discarded shot glass and his pile of cloths on the floor on his way to the couch and pulled off the slipcover that covered the entire piece of furniture. He walked it to the laundry room and tossed it in the washer. He was about to pour in a liberal amount of stain remover when out of nowhere a wave of intense nausea hit him and he couldn't breath. He sprinted to the bathroom, dropped to his knees, gripped the toilet for dear life and vomited.

Reid vomited over and over again until nothing came out but dry heaves that wracked his entire exhausted body. His body felt shaky and weak. He rested his forehead against the cool porcelain for what could have been hours but was really only about five minutes before it occurred to him that he was severely dehydrated and he needed to work up the strength to stand and get water. He reached up and grabbed the edge of the counter to pulled himself up to stand in front of the sink. He ran the cold water and filled a nearby empty cup, swishing the water around in his mouth and spitting it out twice before beginning to drink slowly. He drank one full cup and was about to fill it up again when he looked at himself in the mirror. He was disgusted at the sight of himself. He was drenched in sweat, his skin was deathly pale and the bags under his eyes were so wide and dark they looked like bruises. His entire front was covered in blood from the cut that was now openly bleeding again.

He absently thought about the blood-thinning properties of alcohol, specifically clear liquor, but he pushed those thoughts away in order to focus on the task at hand. He turned around to the ceiling-high cabinet and retrieved the large (heavy) pro-grade tackle box that held a comprehensive first aid kit. Inside he found sterile gauze pads and self-adhering medical tape. Without bothering to clean the dried blood from the wound, he pressed the gauze pads over the gash and awkwardly reached around himself, wrapping the medical tape around his chest. Momentarily satisfied with his haphazard self-treatment, he threw the wrappers from the gaze pads in the trashcan, washed his hands, and stashed the kit away in its proper place. He needed one more layer to block the blood from his sight, so he dug through the cloths hamper and put on one of Morgan's t-shirts that he found there. It just happened to be black, so if he were to bleed thru the stains would not be as apparent. He was thoroughly exhausted then. He felt as though he could pass out right there in the bathroom and never care.

He knew he should shower. He knew he should brush his teeth. He knew he should clean the living room. He knew he should properly dispose of the spent condom in the living room wastebasket. He knew he should call Morgan and tell him what had happened. He knew he should call Garcia and ask for a ride to the hospital to have the gash in his chest properly cared for. He knew he should do so many things but the only thing he could bring himself to do was stagger into the bedroom and collapse onto the bed.

Clooney, no longer able to spring up as he had been in his younger years, struggled into the bed and curled himself up next to Reid. Normally the dog was not allowed on furniture, especially not the bed, but Reid had neither the strength nor the heart to push him away. Instead he wrapped an arm around the warm protective body next to him and found a small but desperately needed measure of comfort as he drifted off to sleep.

"Dogsnever bite me. Just humans." Marilyn Monroe