Disclaimer:Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.
Author's Note: So, everyone seemed to really love the last chapter, which makes me so happy because I think it's my favorite and the one I am most proud of! Yay! Thank you all for bearing with me through it! Happy endings for all!
Also, 300 REVIEWS? Oh man, we made it to that milestone! You guys are so awesome!
Chapter Thirty-Four: Sinking
"Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank - but that's not the same thing." -Joseph Conrad
"The doctor said he should be fine, but they wanted a urine sample to make sure, so they're setting him up to a catheter now," Morgan said as he sat down on the plastic chair beside Hotch, warming his hands on the steaming cup of coffee. Shaking his head, he reached up and rubbed a hand over his brow, sighing heavily. "I guess it's good they ended up sedating him anyway if they were going to do that originally."
Hotch nodded his agreement, sipping from the styrofoam container as he watched nurses assemble a temporary privacy screen around Reid's bed, the young man hidden from view. After a moment, he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "What happened?"
Morgan sighed as he looked up to the room, shaking his head slowly, unsure. "I don't know, man. He just spaced out and...I think he had flashbacks that-"
"No," Hotch interrupted, silencing his subordinate. "No, what happened...before? Why did he do it?"
The younger man could do nothing but shake his head, exhaling a deep breath of air as he looked down at the floor, at the plastic lid covering the coffee he could barely bring himself to drink. Why did he do it? Had it been the build up of stress from the trials? The words of the Defense Attorney? Or was it from everything else? From the memories, the flashbacks...
Or was it because of what Morgan said?
His stomach knotted, a string of pain shooting up through his chest and making his whole torso ache at the thought. Would he be able to live with himself if he was the reason for Reid attempting such a thing? How could Reid ever forgive him? Could he ever forgive himself?
His legs began to shake, the ball of his feet quivering ever so slightly against the grainy linoleum as his body followed suit, his elbows and hands making the same motion as they rested on top of his knees. He could hear the slosh of the coffee as it was pushed against the curved sides of the cup, splashes of the hot liquid spilling out from the small hole in the lid.
Hotch gave him a sideways glance, his dark eyes narrowed as he watched the slight convulsing, worry evident in his brow. But Morgan couldn't still his limbs, even if he tried with all his might. He was too jittery, too alert. His nerves were standing on edge, urging him to do something- anything!- but sit there on the chair, sit there as Reid was examined and poked and prodded by people who didn't know him.
'Reid wouldn't want this,' he thought, thinking he should stop them. Make them leave the kid alone, tell them he's been through enough. But he couldn't, the logical side of his brain winning out and demanding that he stay put and let the doctor's do what they had to do. But his over-protectiveness- fierce, like that of a lion to its cub- was protesting at every angle. How could he let strangers violate him again? After he had possibly been the reason the young genius nearly died?
The twitching increased, dramatically and with no gradual incline.
The cup slipped from his hands.
The styrofoam container fell to the floor, the flimsy plastic lid immediately bouncing of the lip of the cup, allowing the steaming hot coffee to flow freely. It pooled around his shoes, staining Morgan's neat and clean sneakers.
But the man, still too focused on his guilt ridden thoughts, barely paid notice to coffee, groaning at the mess and covering his eyes with his trembling hands, a whispered curse slipping through.
"I'll get a napkin," Hotch said after a second before he left, the concern in his voice hanging in the air like fog. He returned minutes later, kneeling forward and placing it on the floor. Once he had cleaned it up and Morgan mumbled a quiet thank you, he settled back down beside him, his body facing the younger man as he eyed him intensely.
"He's going to be fine, Morgan," he said, but the man was shaking, moving his hands away from his eyes as he started to gesticulate madly.
"No, no! He's not going to be fine, Hotch!" he yelled. "He just took a handful of pills! That's. Not. Fine!" He stood from his chair, pacing in the small hallway wildly as he ran his hands over his scalp, shaking his head. "How is this fine?"
Hotch leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him as he watched Morgan, his eyes following his frantic movements. Raising his voice just enough so that he could speak over the deep yells, he said, "He's safe, at least, Morgan. That's the most we can ask for."
"For how long though? How long will he be okay? Until they release him? Until the trial? Until his next flashback?" He was slicing his arms through the air, angrily, frantically moving around as though his nerves were too frazzled to stop- his entire body stuck in one command for the rest of his life. "Hotch, he won't be safe. Not now, not for months...hell, maybe not even years!"
"We've done all we could for him-"
"NO!" Morgan roared, swiveling around to face his boss, his feet rooting to the spot as he put his hands on his hips, his movements finally coming to halt. But his face was hard set, his brow line set in a deep frown that caused crinkles of skin along his forehead as his nostrils flailed, his lips pursed. "No! We haven't done all we could for him! That's why this happened! That's why he's here! Don't you get it? It's because we've never done anything for him that this happened! How the hell can you sit there and act like we've done enough?"
"Excuse me, sir?"
Hotch and Morgan looked at the source of the noise, a petite doctor in her late thirties and a pinched smile. "I'm sorry if you're going through something right now, but you're starting to upset the other patients. If you would like, there's an available conference room that you and your friend can use just outside of the triage. I can direct Dr. Hart to you once he's finished up with Dr. Reid, alright?"
Before the already enraged agent could say anything, Hotch jumped up from his chair, nodding his thanks. "Yes, that would be wonderful. Thank you." Sparing no more words, he started walking to the exit of the ER, away from Morgan, away from the bustling doctor's surrounding his subordinate, and away from Reid.
Dumping his empty coffee cup on the way out, he quickly found the room the doctor spoke about and sat himself in the large, cushioned swivel chair. Folding his arms over the table, he looked at the door, waiting for Morgan to come through it. But he didn't. And knowing the stubborn man, he was probably steadfastly refusing to leave Reid's side.
'He's stronger than you,' he thought, sighing as he placed his head down on his hands, the tip of his nose coming into contact with the soothing cool of the table. He didn't know how Morgan could do it- how he could watch as one man so close to him deteriorated before his eyes and still had the strength to be there, by his side. How Morgan could set aside all his own personal thoughts and feelings, all his own regrets, if it meant having that person wake up to a friendly face.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't sit there and look at the person who he let down so often, who he failed repeatedly time and time again and just be alright with it. He couldn't do it.
Did he even deserve to do it? How did he have any right to try to be there for Reid anymore?
He felt the tears before he knew he was crying, the moisture on his arm alerting him to their presence. But, like always, the tears never got very far, settling only on his lid instead of traveling down the slope of his cheek. He was losing control so fast.
But what did he have to complain about, when Reid's entire life and sanity was hanging by a string?
He took a deep and shuddering breath, silencing his thoughts in order to gain some piece.
It didn't take long for him to fall asleep.
xXx
It was the door opening fully that woke him up.
He had always been a light sleeper, a trait that was only solidified in his job field. It only took investigating one crime scene where the UnSub broke into the home and attacked the victim while they were at their most vulnerable for Hotch to take all the necessary steps to be as invulnerable as possible. Needless to say, the second Morgan walked through the door he was sitting up in the chair, rubbing his eyes and trying very much to look like he hadn't just fallen asleep.
Whether or not Morgan noticed that he had been sleeping, he didn't show it, as he sighed and took the seat opposite Hotch, propping his elbows on the table and holding his face in his hands.
"He started to wake up," he said after a moment, peering out from between his fingers.
Hotch nodded. "What happened after I left?" he asked, trying to keep the shame from his voice. But how could he not? He felt like the one person in the group who left in the middle of the horror movie, too frightened and shaken to watch anymore. The person who had to pull back last minute, give up, and let the bigger man handle it all.
"They reduced his shoulder injury- they said it was an anterior dislocation, and didn't require surgery. They put him in a sling for it," he said, shrugging his shoulders and letting out a breath before adding, "He was starting to wake up when I left to find you. They're going to..." he swallowed hard here, rubbing his brow even deeper now as he forced himself to say it. "They're going to bring him up to the psych ward. They're trying to get in touch with the residential to see when they can transport him back."
Hotch nodded slowly. "And the trials?"
"They could arrange for him to have a pass to leave for the trials, and only the trials, and come back to stay at the hospital, if he wants. But it's all up to him by this point," Morgan answered. After a second, he sighed, his shoulders slumping heavily with the action. "Hotch, I...it's my fault. I upset him, I yelled at him...I-"
"Morgan," Hotch started, his voice only slightly raspy with sleep as he rose a hand to quiet his subordinate. Surprisingly and despite Morgan's fighting nature, the man fell silent, glancing up at his boss with wide, tired eyes. "He's a grown man who can make his own decisions. To be honest," he paused, swallowing hard as he looked down at the floor, suddenly finding the intricate weaving of carpet strands utterly fascinating. "The signs were there. We just weren't reading them. It was only a matter of time."
It hurt, admitting it. Admitting that even when he was so close- within arm's distance- Reid was still out of his grasp. That they were never quite there, never on time, to save him.
What if Reid hadn't reacted the way he did? What if he didn't get Morgan for help?
He squeezed his eyes shut at the image of a cold and white Reid, at the idea of walking into the room and finding his youngest agent dead. What would have happened? Who would have found him? Would it be Morgan, realizing something was wrong when he didn't get up for the trial? Or would it be Hotch, wandering in for an early morning pep talk that was already too late? What would they do? How would everyone react?
He hated himself, but he could see the way it would all unfurl, the reaction of each and every one of them, painted before his eyelids like a macabre scene- JJ and Garcia crying, comforting each other and their hysterics while Emily stayed off to the side in quiet shock, compartmentalizing the moment in a still frame she would revisit by herself when no one was witness to her breakdown. Morgan would deny it, he would be angry and explosive, he would disappear to the nearest gym and take down a weighted punching bag. He would argue it, he would demand the doctors find a cause of death that was anything but suicide. And Rossi would try to keep a level head through it all, he would try to be the wall against which everyone would lean. But Hotch would know that it was all a front, he would notice the way his eyes would linger far too long on Reid's lifeless body, on Reid's belongings that no longer belonged. To the world it might seem like resigning acceptance, but to Hotch it would be the subtle grief of one man who had simply lost the ability grieve, all of his tears spent long ago on victims whom he still continued to think about, mourn for.
And what would he do? Would Hotch respond by crying, loudly or to himself? Or would he become violent and out of control like Morgan?
No, in the end, he knew that he would do what he always did- he would bury himself in something prevalent, he would become purpose driven. It would start with the trial, he would focus entirely on getting Varney in jail, doing nearly as much- if not more- work as the lawyer. Doing anything that meant not thinking about Reid.
'No,' he stopped himself. 'Reid's fine. It didn't happen. We got to him on time. We don't have to worry about it.' There's was no point in thinking about anything that didn't happen. Reid was alive, that was all that mattered. But how long would that last for? Reid was always coming so close...there was going to be a point where they didn't get there on time, where they weren't able to stop the UnSub from pulling the trigger, wouldn't there? There were only so many times they could swoop in and save him before...poof! And he was lost forever.
The only thing was, Hotch never predicted that they might run the risk of Reid being the one to hold the gun.
They were masters of the criminal mind, not the mind of the victim.
Clearing his throat as he tried to rid himself of the depressing thoughts once and for all, he looked up at Morgan and said, "We should go back to the hotel. They won't let us up to visit him anyway and we have to be ready tomorrow- you're testifying and I have to..." he shifted uncomfortably in his seat before adding, "I have to explain to the team what's happening."
Morgan agreed, licking his lips as he began nodding. "Yeah, we have to be up in a couple hours so we might as well..." He stood, Hotch soon behind him. And together they left they hospital, stopping only to have a quick conversation with Dr. Hart about visitation and other such necessities.
xXx
It was eight in the morning, Reid noted, sparing a passing glance on the clock on his way to the shower room. Right now, the team would be on their way to court, on their way to face Varney without him.
He couldn't help but heave a sigh of relief, thankful that he wouldn't have to face the man again. When he had awoken that morning, groggy and fuzzy with the haze of drugs, he felt like he did that first morning, like he had rolled around in a pile of mud. Like a thick layer of grime was caked onto his skin. Like the cells that made up his tissues that made up his skin was moving erratically, making his entire body itch with the feeling of filth.
But worst of all he felt a dull, telling ache at the base of his spine, the memory so powerful he could even recall long forgotten pains. It was as if acknowledging Varney for the first time outside of his nightmares made his mind recall everything, and his body followed suit.
"Here is your towel, your washcloth, your shampoo and conditioner and your soap," the orderly said, alerting Reid to the real world with startlingly clarity. The orderly, a man named Chuck, was sitting in a chair in front of a side hall, only several yards in length and consisting of nothing but three doors on each side. A tray was placed in front of him, and he motioned to the pile of towels, and then the small disposable cups, each filled with dollop shampoo, and a pile of slim bars of wrapped soap beside it.
Reid looked up at him for a second before reaching out and grabbing one of each, juggling it unsteadily in his hands, his slung arm making the process even more difficult. "The water will last for about seven minutes each time you press the button, but it is preferred that you only press it once, no more than twice, as the other patients need to shower too," Chuck said, a smile on his face that did little to conceal his boredom. "After twenty minutes, we will check on you. The doors don't lock, so if you don't want to give a show to someone, I suggest taking no longer than ten minutes to get in and out." And with that, the greeting was done, Chuck having looked away and turning his attention to the next patient who wandered out of their room.
Reid turned into the hall, looking down at the various doors, some of which were closed tight and with the muffled sound of water running coming from behind it. He headed to the last one, the door ajar, and pushed it aside, slipping into the small room and closing the door with a click. When he turned around, he took in the room before him, which consisted of nothing more than a lone, one person shower and a chair, a hook hanging from the wall.
Placing his stuff onto the chair, he quickly stripped down- struggling immensely with the arm he was too afraid to move- and stepped into the small space, examining the button and nozzle before him before experimentally pushing it, instantly having a stream of water pour onto him. His muscles relaxed under the heat and he felt himself sighing under the slight pressure, his fingers twitching at his side with the temptation to scrub hard at his skin with the washcloth.
The water wasn't hot enough, but there was no way he could adjust it, the hospital probably having had multiple patients scorch themselves before transitioning to the simple button system. They only wanted you to be clean, they didn't care if you felt clean.
Holding his arm to his chest, a painful ache of a reminder of his earlier struggles, he proceeded to wash himself, thankful that his hair was as short as it was- there was barely enough shampoo in the plastic containers to wash what little he had, never mind his longer locks from months back. He could barely even bring himself to properly wash it all out, standing under the shower and hoping that the pressure of the water would do it all for him as he ran the washcloth over his skin. It was made from soft material, softer than any towel he had felt. It would have been nice if they were made so soft for the comfort of their patients, but they weren't. They were made in that manner so that a patient would be unable to scrub layers of skin off, not so that they could feel luxury.
Still knowing this, he tried to dig the towel against his skin, succeeding only in turning the area red from the friction he created.
He didn't feel any cleaner.
In fact, he felt dirtier, as if the germs and bugs and grime that lingered over him were stronger now, immune to cleansers and attempts to sanitize the skin. Like the Super Bugs that were adapted to antibiotics, they clung to his body with a ferocity that would not be short lived, never to be removed. He felt disgusting.
He felt like he would never be clean again.
A yelping sound escaped from his throat, but died on his lips as he heard it echo around the tiled room. Surely, they would hear him. He needed to be quiet if he didn't want to alert the attention of the medical staff.
But it was so damn hard! All he wanted to do was rub at his skin with a real towel, one that had a fraying weave to it, one that could actually peel everything off. Didn't they understand that? Didn't they know just how important it was to be clean?
'No, of course they don't. Because they don't know what it feels like to be dirty,' he said to himself, bitterly. This never would have happened if he declined Morgan's invitation to go to the trials. He knew it was because of seeing him that he felt so filthy, so jumpy, and the slight throb at the end of his spine.
He should have just stayed in the hospital. He wasn't strong enough for this. Why did he ever think he was?
He wasn't even strong enough to live a life that was spent in hospitals, what the hell made him think he could encounter that monster and just be fine?
Was that why he did it? Was it because of seeing Varney that he had decided to end it all? 'That has to be it,' he told himself, giving up on peeling the skin away from his torso as he sunk to clean his legs. 'I was alright, until I saw Varney. Then I tried to...do it.' He couldn't even say the words in his head, as though they were taboo, and speaking them aloud would be the condemning factor. If he didn't say those words, those damning syllables, than maybe it didn't happen. And he and the team could go on like he never did something so desperate, like he was never so close to death by his doing. Taking a steadying breath that was stifled by the hot and moist air, he continued to ponder the idea. 'It can't be a coincidence. Varney was what made me do it.'
But even with his resolve made, he couldn't help but feel the slight twinge in his stomach, the little voice in his head that said, 'You're only using him as your reason so that you don't have to deal with the real reason you did it.'
He swallowed, leaning his head down as he watched water swirl down the drain, the dented platform of the shower stall drawing all of the liquid into the center. He was too smart- to knowledgeable of psychology- to know that the little voice- his subconscious, possibly- was correct.
So if Varney wasn't the reason, than what was?
The answer came to him, suddenly and without question. And he knew, with perfect understanding, exactly why he tried to do it.
But there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would have to learn to deal with it and live through it.
Didn't he? There was a solution to it, one thing he could do to stop the thing that had made him so desperate for escape. But would he be willing to do it? Could he actually go through with something so...altering? So permanent?
He couldn't- no, he would have to cope.
'But it's too much,' he said to himself, sighing. His head was beginning to hurt from all the confusion and internal battles that were taking place. Why couldn't just one thing in his life be easy? Why could he have just one decision to make that didn't tear him apart?
It took only several unspoken phrases for him to lean towards one side thought. 'It's not worth it, anymore. The cons outweigh the pros. Is it really worth your sanity?' It wasn't. Nothing was worth his sanity, his happiness. How many smiles had been wasted because of it? How many days had he spent in misery when he could have been happy?
His decision made, he closed his eyes and leaned against the back wall, the shower shutting off only seconds later.
xXx
They were late.
Hotch had slept through his alarm, and Morgan had forgotten to set one. It wasn't until a flustered and irritated phone call from Rossi that Hotch lurched from his bed, stumbling over the tangle of blankets as he turned to look at the clock beside his bed. Dark eyes widened at the black numbers, telling him he had five minutes to get dressed and make it to the courthouse.
"Aaron? Aaron, you there?"
Shaking his head, he rubbed his face, hoping that the friction might steady his vision and and dull the tired ache in his eyes. "Yeah," he replied gruffly, pulling himself up. He needed coffee, he needed a shower, he need to get Morgan up...his head was dizzy with all the ways his mind was going, all the signals his body was sending. Waking up was really what he needed.
"Where are you guys?" Rossi asked, the agitation evident in his voice.
"At the hotel," he answered, falling to his knees as he began pulling a suit out of his luggage, having to pay more focus than he cared to admit to make sure the slacks and jacket were of a matching set.
There was a pause before Rossi said, in an incredulous and exasperated manner, "Still? Aaron, the trial is going to start-"
"I know that, Dave," he ground out in response, silencing the profiler with the ferocity in his voice. He sighed, pausing to gather his wits. While he was used to functioning on little sleep due to the priority of his job, he was pushing it, having gotten no more than two hours, coupled with all of the stress from the night before...
Reid was in the hospital. He had almost forgotten. Or rather, he wished he had. It seemed wrong that he was here in a hotel, resting up before heading into a trial, while Reid had been left in the hospital, suicidal. He should have stayed there with him, deep down he knew that. Reid shouldn't have to be alone, shouldn't think he was alone. Not as if it mattered- he already thought he was alone. Why else would he have taken a handful of pills?
A dry lump formed in his throat, straining his muscles. He rose his free hand- the other one idly holding the phone to his ear- and pressed it against the front of his neck, pushing down on his jugular. Was that what it felt like- Swallowing all of those tablets? Did he have to force it down, pushing a glob of disintegrating chemicals down his throat, tears forming in his eyes from the pain? Or did he take the pills one by one, lingering on the chalky and bitter taste, giving himself time to stop in case he began to regret the choice he made?
He hated himself, he knew, the second he hoped it was the first of the two options. It hurt more, knowing that Reid had given himself the opportunity to turn back but hadn't taken it, that he had committed himself to his pact.
"Is everything alright?"
He jumped, his body twitching as he turned to look at the phone. The answer died on his lips. He couldn't lie, not to Rossi, not to his team. But he couldn't tell him over the phone, not when the trial was due to start in only several minutes. He would have to wait now, as much as it would feel like he was withholding information, he had to. They needed to focus on the trial now, first and foremost.
He sighed. "I'll explain everything when I get there. We must have slept in...I'll get...we'll be there." He paused, unable to continue saying that he'd get Morgan up when he knew Rossi would realize he had exempted Reid from that statement.
But the unfortunate thing with dealing with high-class profilers is that it's not always what you say to them, but what you don't say. How foolish for Hotch to have overlooked this, as Rossi asked, after a brief second of silence, "Something happened with Reid, didn't it?"
Hotch hesitated. "Yes...he's fine but..."
Rossi interrupted him, knowing full well that he didn't have the time or the emotional bearings to hear about what had occurred now with their youngest teammate. "Alright, Aaron. You can tell me and the team when you get here. You guys take your time, Morgan's testimony isn't until the second half of the trial, it'll be better if you show up for that instead of interrupting the first half anyway."
"Okay," Hotch answered, too thankful for the opportunity to shower and eat a warm meal before heading out to argue. Too tired to argue. "I'll let you know when we're on our way, in that case. I'm sorry about this, Dave. Thank you for being so understanding."
"Even you deserve to rest, Aaron," came his only reply, causing a slight, fleeting smile to grace Hotch's features. Rest was too elusive a concept by this point in his life. Rest implied a fresh, awakened state. A clear and rejuvenated mind. He couldn't remember the last time he felt rested.
"Reid is okay though, right?"
"Yes, he is." He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying, 'If you stretch the definition of okay.' He really was becoming sardonic in his old age, wasn't he?
"Alright, you can share the details when you get in then. I'll see you soon." And with that, Rossi hung up, the worry in his voice only barely concealed.
Placing his phone down, Hotch stood and made his way over to the door conjoining his room with Morgan's. He decided that waking him up first would be the best course of action, so that both men could get ready in their own time. Raising his hand, he rapped on the door quickly and waited for several seconds before walking in, regardless of no response.
But Morgan wasn't in his bed, the covers no more than slightly rumpled, as if he hadn't slept in it at all.
Furrowing his brow, he stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him. Where was he? His answer came to him when he turned to examine the far right of the room, releasing the breath he hadn't been aware of holding.
Fully dressed in the clothes he had worn to the hospital, Morgan laid spread eagle on Reid's bed, his left arm covering his eyes from the light he never turned off. His chest rose and fell in slow, peaceful movements, still deep in sleep.
If Hotch had to guess, he would assume that his agent hadn't the intention of falling asleep when he entered the room, and had only done so out of pure exhaustion. That Morgan had gone into the area, and, overwhelmed and most likely guilty with what had happened with Reid, taken to sitting on the young genius's bed instead of his own. However long he stayed there for before he succumbed to slumber and why it put him at peace, Hotch did not know. He did, nevertheless, know that the shielded and masculine man would be mortified if he awoke in this position, caught in his grief by another being. With that in mind, Hotch took great care in padding softly over the beige carpeting, towards the alarm clock. He quickly set it to go off in five minutes and then straightened, looking back at Morgan. The arm covering his eyes from view had slipped, revealing the swollen lids, puffy and blotchy with dried tears.
Hotch left the room, knowing the now set alarm clock would awaken his teammate, all the while telling himself that he wasn't turning his back on another agent, not this time.
xXx
"I'll drive," Morgan said, grabbing the keys to the SUV off the table as he and Hotch stood simultaneously, stretching his long muscles out. They had just finished getting ready and had decided to head over to a local diner for breakfast before going to the courthouse. They did have quite some to spare, as it was, and the idea of warm food sounded good to their very empty stomachs- when was the last time they properly ate? Sat down for a meal instead of holding themselves over with food from a vending machine or prepackaged snacks from convenience stores? No, a plate of fresh cooked food sounded all too enticing to pass up.
They headed out the door, Morgan having spent the last several minutes in Hotch's room as the superior finished a phone call with Reid's doctor. He had wanted to ask about the conversation, but decided to save it for over breakfast, knowing that the talk would make the intimate setting less stifling. Besides, the drained and stressed look marring Hotch's face had been enough to keep him silent.
He had awoken that morning, not even aware he had fallen asleep in the first place. And when he finally managed to figure out how to turn off the damned alarm clock, short, of course, of throwing it across the room, he pulled himself up from Reid's bed and sat down on his own, deciding it suddenly felt far less right.
While his intelligence seemed small and unremarkable when placed next to that of Reid's, it was often understated on just how smart and intuitive he was. Sure, he couldn't tell you what he decidedly dubbed as mundane and arbitrary facts, or complete a complicated calculus formula using only his head, or solve a linguistic mystery, but he did hold his own degrees, he was well taught in the areas that mattered to him.
And he could tell you with damnable certainty that the alarm clock was set by someone other than himself or Reid.
Hotch, of course, was the obvious solution. No one had set the alarm the previous night, something that was a sort of a ritual for the young agent seconds before he laid down for bed. And even if it had been set, it would have been so for an earlier time that would have given Morgan ample preparation before the trials.
No, he had reasoned that Hotch awoke, from whatever source, and when he came to get Morgan up, had seen the state he was in, had seen the still almost fresh tears. And, to save both men their pride and uncomfortable moment, he set the alarm to do the job for him. He really was grateful of it, not having to explain why exactly he had slept on Reid's bed, not having to pretend like, only hours earlier, he hadn't been crying. Albeit, soft crying that didn't quite make it down the expanse of his cheek, but crying nonetheless.
He would have done well at it though, if he had too.
They had all gotten remarkably wonderful at pretending.
"They spoke to Reid," Hotch said, startling Morgan from his thoughts. "The doctors. They will be keeping him there for immediate and emergency observation, for at least three days, before sending him back to the residential facility."
Morgan nodded, his eyes focusing on the stretch of road. He wasn't surprised, not in the slightest. He had known that that would be his choice, that it should have been his choice all along. It was for the best, in the end.
"They also said he's requesting to speak to me."
Now that was something new.
Sending his chief a sidelong glance, he raised a thick eyebrow and said, "Oh yeah? Did they mention about what exactly?"
Hotch shook his head slowly. "No. They just said that he spent about five minutes pestering the nurses at the station to pass along the information. He also said that it was about something important, and the doctor said I should come during visiting hours today, as soon as possible."
"Do you think he'll tell you why he did it?" The question was spoken softly, after a moment, as if it were an afterthought to ask, as if the younger man had been debating with himself on whether or not to say it. But Hotch could only roll his shoulders.
"I'm not sure."
He pulled into the parking lot of the diner now, settling the large SUV into the back where there were no other vehicles to get in the way. Turning off the ignition, he turned to Hotch and asked, "What visiting hours are you going to?"
Hotch remained silently for a moment, his gaze focused on the gray dashboard of the vehicle, his jaw clenching as he thought. Slowly, he looked to Morgan and said, "I think I'll skip on the trial today. That way we can talk in private about whatever it is he wants to discuss."
Morgan nodded, agreeing with the plan as he opened his car door and stepped out.
xXx
Author's Note: to my dear reader, CMSP, you should be a personal trainer, as you are wonderful at whipping people into shape! This chapter has actually been completed for some time, but I haven't had any chances to fine tune it.
About a year ago, my sister moved in with her 2 year old son. And about two months ago, we found out her son has stage four neuroblastoma, a type of childhood cancer. Unfortunately, things have been really hectic trying with this, and stress has a created a sort of writer's block so that when I do have free time, I can't think.
That being said, I greatly apologize, as I know this chapter is not up to par at all, and it had a long time coming. I had the intentions of fixing it, but in the end I've decided a chapter is better than none.
I do not plan on discontinuing this story, and hopefully once this chapter is up and running, the block will be gone.
Thank you all for your patience!