2:54 AM, November 20

"Why is it always you?"

Morgan's voice was quiet, just above a whisper, but it seemed unnaturally loud in Reid's hospital room. He would have been accustomed to noise and bustle and havoc in hospitals—in general, they were noisy places. But now, at almost three o'clock in the morning, all was very nearly silent, save for the slow, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor next to the bed.

Hotch had been informed of the night's events; from what he'd told Morgan, they had wrapped up the case in Chicago and had planned on taking the jet back tomorrow morning—however, that trip had been bumped up to midnight. They were expected sometime in the morning, sometime around five or five thirty. The doctors had told Morgan that Reid should be awake by then; the operation to remove the bullet had gone well—it had missed all vital organs and had, thank God, missed his spine by about two inches. He had, however, lost a lot of blood, and the doctors had gingerly explained to Morgan that it was best to keep him for at least another night to make sure that he would heal properly. Morgan had agreed for the simple reason that he hadn't known what else to do; it felt good to relinquish control to someone else, for a little while.

Morgan realized that his head had dropped into his hands; he had seen this position before: knees parted, feet planted on the ground, elbows on knees, his head in his hands. He automatically attributed it with grief; he had seen it many times in hospitals, in police stations, at the scene of horrific crimes—the classic pose of one bearing the weight of unendurable loss. He could not, would not, think about losing Reid, he thought, bringing his head up. Especially now, after the decision he had reached.

11:19 PM, November 19

The ambulance had already gone when Morgan reached the first floor of the hotel; he looked at one of the officers; before the agent had even asked the question, he said, "St. Mary's—on West and 189th."

"Thanks," Morgan said; he wasn't sure if the officer had heard him, especially since he had already turned and started heading for the parking lot. There was no need to tell Richards—after all, he thought, opening the door of the federal SUV, they'd gotten their man. Prince was in custody and would be in jail within an hour, for, at least, assault on a federal agent and murder—attempted murder, he corrected. He tried to train his thoughts back to Prince, and the fact that he was now in the back of the same cars he'd driven for years, but the usual feeling of pride and satisfaction didn't come. Because, yes, they'd gotten him—but at what cost?

1:52 AM, November 20

"Mr. Morgan? Or, uh, sorry—Agent Morgan?"

Morgan's head jerked up—it seemed that he had been sleeping, but he had been waiting for any news he could get, good or bad notwithstanding. He just needed news, something, anything.

"Yes?" The nurse was young and pretty but, for once, he was paying absolutely no attention to her looks.

"Agent Reid made it through surgery with few complications. The surgeons say that he should make it—he was awake for a few minutes, but they decided to put him back under again." She paused, then said, quietly, "Making it through the initial surgery is a very good sign, Agent. There's no reason to expect any serious complications."

Morgan sighed, relieved, and said, "Thank you." Then, with some trepidation: "How bad...?"

"The bullet missed all vital organs and dodged his spine by about two inches," she said. "But there was considerable bleeding, a large portion of which was internal—we usually see Class III and Class IV hemorrhaging when ballistic trauma is involved. It's very lucky that we got there in time." She paused, then said, "Other than the gunshot wound—there are a few contusions and abrasions to his head and neck, and he has a fairly severe concussion. But, like I said, Agent, there's no reason to expect him not to recover."

Morgan closed his eyes, willing away the image, and said, "Thank you... is there any way I can see him?"

The nurse smiled sadly. "At some point tonight, yes, but the doctors want to wait until he's definitely stabilized. Would you like me to tell you when you can come in?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll be out the moment they give me the okay."

She walked away, almost silent in her sensible flat-soled shoes, and he let his head drop again into his palm. He had been trying to keep his mind off of all of this until she had walked in, and he had been doing a decent job; the waiting room was completely empty—mostly because it wasn't the common waiting room; the head of staff had told him to wait in his office. It wouldn't have mattered to him either way, but the office did provide the silence that the waiting room wouldn't have.

He took his phone out of his pocket and texted Garcia quickly, telling her what the nurse had told him and sending it; she had called a couple of times but had, at the second call, apparently gotten the hint that he didn't want to talk—not to anyone but Reid, anyway.

And Reid was the only person he wanted to talk to, even wanted to see, right now, because he needed to tell him now, while the words were still fresh in his memory, while he still had the right terms and phrases and everything all lined up.

He needed to tell him how scared he was, trying to follow the ambulance—how much it had hurt to make the choice to follow Prince instead of seeing if he was dead or alive—how hard it was to pretend that he didn't care who he was out with—he needed to tell him everything, even the fact that he was stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.

2:59 AM, November 20

"You piss me off, you know that?" Morgan mumbled, glancing at Reid. "You really fuckin' do, kid." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "You're lucky that dumb son of a bitch didn't kill you... because I'm pretty sure I would have killed you myself if you died."

He was quiet until the phone in his pocket vibrated against his hip: a text from Prentiss, telling him that they were coming up. The flight had taken much less time than anticipated. He stood, about to walk over to the door, and paused to look back: Reid looked tall and too skinny in his hospital scrubs; a year ago, he would have looked twelve years old, but in that year he had changed, grown into himself, grown into the maturity that the world had thrust upon him. He looked like a man instead of a boy—a young man, but a man nonetheless. And Morgan wondered, not for the first time, if this was right, what he was feeling.

"I love you," he said, so softly that he could barely hear himself. "Goddamnit, Spencer Reid..."

A/N: Well, that's it, maybe. Everybody go vote on my poll RIGHT NOW, because I desperately need your input! You might get an epilogue, unless the majority says that they should get together in the sequel, or not get together at all. If the majority rules that, this is the last chapter and the end of 'Sympathy for the Devil'. I hope you enjoyed the ride.