A/N: First time writing Criminal Minds. I binged it in January and needed to write some Morgan and Reid friendship. This is set before or after Broken (8x15). Deals with Zugzwang aftermath; grief, addiction, the works...
"It's gonna be a few hours before we wrap things up here," Hotch is saying, surveying the wreckage of their latest crime scene; two dead unsubs, three rescued victims, a slaughtered goat (don't ask), and a deputy nursing a gunshot wound to the leg. "I'll stay here. The rest of you should head back to DC, we'll finish up the-"
"I can stay," Reid interjects, a little too loudly.
Everyone glances at each other and Reid fidgets and Morgan does some quick calculations before seconding. Hotch has Jack, and JJ has Henry and Will, and Alex has a side job, and Rossi has a mansion and, no doubt, a nice bottle of scotch waiting. It only makes sense he volunteer. "I'll keep him company. You guys go. We got this."
Hotch agrees with a silent nod and turns to Sheriff Moore, standing by. It's one of those nods that conveys more than just assent, one that says if you're sure and thank you and look after him. It's a nod he's seen an awful lot lately. Morgan's aware of the way Hotch tends to pair Reid and him together when the kid's not alright. He wonders whether taking the team's temperature before dishing out assignments is deliberate or whether it's so instinctive, it's become reflex. Either way, it rankles Morgan sometimes. He couldn't care less who Hotch pairs him with, but the subtle profiling that goes into the decision is another story.
The decision to hang back, though, is his own, and Morgan watches the others leave with satisfaction. His lack of commitment isn't the only reason he chose to stay behind; maybe Reid'll actually talk on the three-hour drive home. The odds aren't in his favor, but maybe. It's been over seven weeks and he hasn't had a non-work-related conversation with the guy that lasted more than thirty seconds. He's barely even had the opportunity; Reid is pretty skilled at avoidance. There's no avoiding a three-hour car-ride, though. And it's not for nothing that Garcia calls him the Reid-whisperer. It's also not for nothing that Morgan doesn't mind, might even take pride in the designation. Once the team is out of sight, Reid glances at him impassively before wandering over to one of the victims. Morgan watches him reassure the teenage girl huddled in the back of an ambulance; if the kid's wise to his game, he'll just have to work harder at it.
CSI takes its sweet time arriving and the hospital drags and by the time they get underway it's half past nine and Morgan is wiped. "Wanna stop, get something to eat?"
Reid shrugs and pulls his door shut. "I'm okay, I'm not really hungry. But if you want to stop, that's fine."
Morgan does stop, but only to pick up an energy drink and some snacks for the road.
"I can drive," Reid offers when he gets back, spotting the Red Bull.
Morgan pops the tab and guzzles a few ounces. "You hate driving at night."
"You're tired."
"I got it, man. I've driven in much worse states." And he waits for Reid to argue, to list accident statistics but, of course, that doesn't happen, because Reid doesn't do that anymore, hasn't for the last month or two, not since that day and that loft. Morgan tosses a Clif bar at him, chocolate peanut butter, his favorite, but that merely startles him and he fumbles for it and places it carefully on the console with the rest of the snacks.
"Thanks," he adds, a few moments later. Morgan hums in response, trying to remember when he last saw Reid eat anything. He comes up blank. New development. Kid had turned into quite the snacker these last few years, always munching on cookies or chips or candy. It takes time, God knows, Morgan knows it takes time, but he's loath to give him that time. He needs Reid to be okay. There's a wrongness to the whole team's functioning when one of them isn't okay, and Reid not being okay affects him more than just professionally. He'd told Garcia weeks ago that the kid needed time, but that was before he came back. Since then, he's been on autopilot, working case after case, avoiding contact, barely talking, barely eating, and, Morgan suspects, barely sleeping.
Morgan's worried about him. Reid can be... fragile isn't the right word; he can be hard as steel when he puts his mind to it. Vulnerable is more accurate. When he hurts, he hurts deeply, viscerally. It's odd, because his lack of emotion scared Derek originally. He remembers one particular grisly scene, their second case together, where Reid just dove straight in, not even taking a second to absorb the copious amounts of splattered blood and the disfigured body parts. But that was before he knew Reid, before he recognized that the kid just processes things differently. He doesn't give anything away, instead he lets everything fester, gets lost in his head, he ruminates and isolates, and tries to let the pain diffuse slowly, in private. Occasionally he snaps, but Reid's snaps more closely resemble your average guy's bad day, than they do a breakdown; they can be easy to miss.
Morgan doesn't know how to help him. Reid usually helps himself. It's never time to talk.
And truthfully, he doesn't want to touch Maeve either. He's got no idea what to say, no way to ease Reid's devastation, no way to make any sense of that scene in the loft. He feels sick just thinking about it. The damp, musty air, the gunpowder, the blood. The suicidal psychopath who wrecked his friend's life... Normally, Morgan's good with crime scenes, he handles the horror he sees on a daily basis well, but when it's personal, it sticks. He remembers the way the sun fell on Haley Hotchner's body, the purple plaid shirt she wore, stained with blood. He remembers shivering in that warehouse, the feel of Emily's ice-cold fingers in his hands, remembers the exact shade of the wooden stake impaling his friend. He remembers the blood rushing to his face, his ears getting hot, he can hear Hotch sobbing, Reid crying, the deafening silence after the storm, the thumping of his heart… These things will never leave him and they sure as hell ain't gonna leave Reid seven weeks after the girl he loved was murdered in front of him.
Morgan accepts the silence.
It starts drizzling. He yawns, turns on the wipers, and checks the GPS. Damn. Still two hours and twelve minutes to go. It's gonna be nearly one by the time they get back to DC. He flips through a bunch of radio stations and smiles when he recognizes a particular song; How Blue Can You Get. It takes him back about thirty years and he finds himself tapping along on the steering wheel.
"My Mama had just about every BB King album out there," Morgan lets slip, still smiling. "This stuff was always playing in the kitchen."
Reid finally looks his way and manages a faint, but very real, smile and Morgan, though it was unintentional, congratulates himself. He should've known; the best way to engage Reid is by sharing something personal. It puts him at ease, for whatever reason. Sure enough, the kid relaxes, the tension going out of his shoulders as he shifts and gets comfortable, letting his head rest.
"What about you, huh?" Morgan pushes, elbowing him lightly. "What did Mama Reid like to play?"
"She, uh.." Reid answers after a fashion, pausing to clear his throat. "She preferred Brahms and Tchaikovsky, Mahler… Liked her symphonies, I guess. She still does… But as far as more contemporary artists go, I remember Dean Martin, Doris Day, Sinatra. Uh… The Platters, Ella Fi-"
"Hold on, hold on," Morgan interrupts. "The Platters. I remember them too. Hey, what was the name of that famous song of theirs?"
"Smoke Gets In Your Eyes? Twilight Time?"
"That's it, yeah…" Morgan grins. "That one always stuck with me. How about that, kid? We found a little overlap in our mamas' music taste."
Reid doesn't look at him, intently watching a rivulet of rain make its way down the windshield, but Morgan can see the trace of a smile in his profile. Twice in as many minutes, not bad. And it's kinda funny to find that connection, even with how tenuous it is; they're from different worlds, culturally. He remembers the day the kid walked into the bullpen, remembers wondering where the hell Gideon and Hotch had picked him up… He had the posture of a medieval water carrier, stumbled over a simple 'hello', and couldn't maintain more than a second of eye contact. It took months before he realized Reid was taller than him. If you'd told Morgan then that that kid, that painfully awkward bag of bones hunched at the next desk, would rank as one of the most important people in his life, he'd have laughed you out the door. Yet here he is, and he's infinitely grateful for it; he's a better person for knowing Reid.
The next half hour passes quicker as rain pelts the car and the station cycles between old blues and rock. Morgan polishes off the rest of his Red Bull, interspersing it with Pringles, while Reid tries not to nod off, clutching his bag to his chest. When they reach the US-48, Morgan shuts off the GPS and shoots Hotch a text, updating him on their whereabouts. Though he hides it well behind his trademark death glare, Hotch is a professional worrier and he has a compulsive need to keep tabs on them. He'd probably implant microchip trackers if they agreed.
The rain slows to a drizzle and Reid straightens up and manages two bites of the Clif Bar before stashing it in his pocket. He's in the process of reclining again when the song changes and he stiffens, his hand unconsciously reaching for the controls before he jerks it back. The whole thing lasts no more than three seconds but Morgan catches it and glances over. Reid's trying to cover by brushing his hair back and playing with the strap on his bag, but his display is in vain. He's clearly on edge and it's got something to do with the song currently playing, a song which scratches a corner of his mind but which he can't name. He lets it slide. The guitar riff ends and the lyrics start up and he recognizes Hendrix. Machine Gun. His college roommate played a lot of Hendrix. And Elle-
Reid is eerily still, aside for his right hand massaging his left wrist.
"I used to shoot up to this song," he comments, a stressful minute later. Just throws it out there like he's letting Morgan know tomorrow'll be 65 and sunny.
Derek keeps two hands on the steering wheel and tries not to stare at Reid. Sometimes you get more than you bargained for. This… is not what he expected to hear tonight. Reid's got a way of surprising him, though. He was pretty damned shocked after that hemophiliac case when the kid actually asked for help with his apartment. But this? This is a whole new level of confidence.
The team has an unspoken agreement when it comes to Reid's history, and that's not to talk about it. Hell, they don't even call it an addiction, just a… thing. Reid doesn't mention it and they keep their mouths shut. It comes up occasionally, in small ways; they all know the drill if Reid is hospitalized: no beta-lactams, no opioids, they all know not to force alcohol on him, they know not to press too hard at his flimsy excuses for missing a night out… And if the kid's familiarity with the 12-step program is a little too intimate, they can always shrug it off and attribute it to his encyclopedic knowledge of just about everything.
This is easily the most direct Reid's ever been about his habit, at least with him.
"You can change the station, Reid," Morgan says once he recovers. "Or turn it off altogether."
"It's okay."
It's clearly not okay, but Morgan lets him be and tries very hard not to picture Reid alone in his apartment, tie knotted, vest buttoned, rolling up his sleeve and jabbing a needle halfway through his skinny arm. Tries not to imagine what could have happened, tries not to picture the seizing, the empty syringes, the pale, frigid skin, the-
He'd failed him, after Hankel. Their relationship wasn't then what it is now and it took a couple of weeks before Morgan realized that PTSD wasn't the only cause behind Reid's behavior and they all figured Gideon was handling it and Reid… Reid was Reid, cagey, incapable of asking for help, and intensely private. It was part out of wanting to respect his privacy that Morgan didn't force the issue. He tried, once or twice, but Reid shut him down and he dropped it. He was a fool. They all were. Because as competent as Spencer is at a million things, he can be criminally negligent when it comes to himself. Derek's not gonna make that same mistake again.
"How long has it been?" He asks, moderating his voice, only half-expecting an answer. He hopes the question isn't taken the wrong way. The kid rarely takes anything personally but they're in uncharted territory here.
It's not immediate, like most figures Reid recites, but it comes after a pause. "Five years, seven months, three days."
Morgan didn't believe anything different, but he still feels relief. He thinks of the stopwatches constantly running in Reid's head, thinks of them all lined up and labeled with the worst moments of his life. While the rest of them are counting the weeks since Maeve, Morgan knows Reid counts the days, hours, minutes, and probably even seconds. Gotta be driving him crazy, all those timers, running, running, running. If there are cravings, they must be excruciating.
"Is it constant?" He asks, keeping his eyes on the road. Reid's fingers twitch nervously in his peripheral vision.
"No. Just when… just when things are difficult."
The guitar screams in the background.
"These last two months have been difficult."
The pattering of the rain intensifies.
"Immensely," Reid admits, wringing his hands. And Morgan figures maybe he does want to talk, needs to talk, but he'd rather talk about this than about her. This is old, this is familiar, this is more humbling than it is painful. It's suddenly very hot in the car.
"You should be immensely proud of yourself then," Morgan says carefully, risking a glance.
"Proud of myself…" Reid echoes, with a small, hollow laugh that grates Derek's nerves. When he speaks again, it's in that quiet, deliberate way of his, as if he's editing his sentences in real time. "I should be proud of myself for not being what's essentially a heroin addict. That's a pretty… pretty low bar, wouldn't you agree?"
Reid's staring at him now, challenging him to argue, which Morgan does, happily. "No, I won't. I won't agree, kid. You know, my grandpop was an alcoholic. Struggled with it his whole life. My grandma was always begging him to get help and he would, for a little while... He was a tough, hard man but he just couldn't stop and it killed him in the end. I know how much strength it takes to beat an addiction, Reid. You're doing that, and you're doing it on your own. And I know we don't talk about it, but it was never your fault. I don't mean that in an 'addiction is a disease not a choice' kinda way, I mean it wasn't your fault, period. It was never a choice, it was forced on you."
Reid has long since broken eye contact, staring out the passenger side window, but Morgan continues.
"So considering all that and considering the regular stress of our jobs, and considering these last two months, Reid, yeah… I think you should be proud of yourself. I know I am. Five and a half years is a hell of a long time."
Reid accepts his explanation without argument and rubs his eyes. They cross the West Virginia/Virginia state line.
"Are you sleeping at all?"
"Some."
"Some, as in one or two-hour naps, some as in four-five hours a night, or some as in a couple of minutes three nights ago?"
"You're incorrigible, Derek."
Morgan smiles at the first semi-humorous remark outta Reid since… everything. And the 'Derek'… well, it's rare but he doesn't hate it. "So Hendrix, huh? How'd that happen?"
"Years ago, Elle gifted me a number of vinyl records," Reid perks up. "Claimed I needed to learn to appreciate good music, that I had the musical preferences of a 'Soviet Admiral'. I didn't want to ruin Bach and Beethoven, so I'd play those albums when I… when I was high. Fitting that it was Hendrix, I guess."
"Well, she was right about that," Morgan laughs, ignoring the last sentence, because Reid referencing Hendrix's drug abuse in relation to himself is just too strange a development to dwell on.
"Actually, she was wrong," Reid yawns. "Soviet era music was almost exclusively Russian, although Stalin was known to favor Mozart. And I don't only listen to classical music."
"Really? Do tell. Are you secretly a metalhead?"
"I enjoy quite a few jazz musicians," Reid states. "It's a calming genre. Casinos tend to play jazz in an effort to get players to relax."
Morgan sighs. "Jazz? Really? That barely counts, Reid."
"Why?"
"Because jazz is like… it's like the cereal of music. It's just kinda there. Not terrible, but not good either."
"Cereal's great. I eat cereal all the time. It takes ten seconds to prepare and it's full of fiber and vitamins. You know, seventy percent of adults eat cereal regularly and studies link cereal consumption with lower rates of obesity."
"I don't think you need to worry about obesity, Reid."
"Yeah, but if I stopped eating cereal, who knows what would happen?"
Morgan blinks and looks to his right because that was an authentic Spencer Reid joke, delivered in his classic understated drawl. Reid's not smiling but he doesn't look drawn or weighed-down either, just kind of bored, still playing with his fingers. Morgan smiles to himself. It's working. He didn't do anything to draw him out, yet Reid's talking, evidently comfortable enough in his presence to loosen up, relieve some of the pressure that's been building for the last seven weeks. It's gratifying, and Morgan works to keep the conversation alive.
"Speaking of Elle, you talk to her at all?"
"Not much. Just two or three times over the last few years. She's not very good about answering her phone."
"Yeah, I remember that."
"You?"
"No," Morgan admits, rubbing his brow. "We, uh… we fell out of touch pretty quickly."
"The last time I talked to her was over twenty months ago… It was on her birthday. She was doing okay, I think. She was back in New York. I don't think she likes it when I call. Think it's a reminder of her time here. She's probably trying to forget."
Reid looks at him a bit sadly and Morgan nods, grateful for the update. For someone so reticent, the kid has an odd tendency to get attached to people quickly and he's not particularly good at letting go; it figures he'd be the one to stay in touch.
"You gonna stop calling?"
"I don't know." Reid says. "Even as a profiler, she was hard to read. Maybe I'll just ask her."
The rain slows to a drizzle again as they begin the long approach to DC. Reid falls silent, cracking his window an inch to let in the crisp, late-winter air. Morgan sneaks glances at him and notices the way his face gets tighter, his finger-wringing more violent, his posture stiffer, the closer they get to town. He thinks of all the late-nights Reid's pulled lately, offering to do everyone's paperwork, of how he's always in the bullpen by the time he arrives, of his volunteering to stay behind just now, of his inviting them to his apartment last month, of the way he no longer sleeps on the jet but instead stares at his book, or into space, or at them, when he thinks they aren't looking…
It's funny and sad the way you don't miss something until it's gone. Reid's had his ups and downs these last few years. Morgan can't remember when it started but somewhere along the way, Reid changed. Lost a bit of his youth, his liveliness, his placidity, his mischievousness, got a little quieter, a little more moody. It happened slowly, so slowly, Morgan barely noticed, and when he did, there was always a cause to attribute it to; JJ's reassignment, his health scare, Emily's 'death', etc… He didn't realize just how much Reid had changed until some of that cheerfulness returned, until those private, self-amused smiles made their reappearance, until Spencer started looking happy again. That's when it hit him how it'd been years since his friend seemed content.
The weirdness of his secret relationship notwithstanding, Morgan had been overjoyed for him. Whoever she was, she clearly made him happy and that was enough. But he hadn't fully grasped the seriousness of their relationship, until the day she went missing, the day Reid confided in him about her confession, the day he realized Reid truly loved this woman, the day he promised the kid they'd be okay, that they'd get more time… He hadn't appreciated what her loss would mean until the day she died.
Now it's all over. The smile is gone, the life is gone, she's gone, and he's got no idea if Reid'll ever recover. And there's nothing he can do about it, not now. He should've shot her. He had a chance; a split second opening… It would've been risky, but he should've tried. He doubts the what-ifs will ever stop plaguing him.
Morgan sighs noiselessly and takes the next exit. Reid notices but says nothing. Five minutes later, when their destination becomes obvious, he speaks.
"Morgan, no."
"Why not?"
"It's too late. Let's just g-"
"They're open 24 hours, Reid, you're always going on about it. And I distinctly remember you saying that there's never a time you're not in the mood of Manny's."
Reid opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it and ends up chewing his lip for the remaining three blocks. When they pull into a space alongside the restaurant he pretends not to notice they've stopped.
"Reid, we're doing this, let's go."
"I'm not hungry."
"I don't care. Besides," Morgan argues, collecting his trash and squashing it into a ball. "It's pretty much a scientific fact that you're hungry. I'm sure you could tell me all about it. I've been watching you, kid, I know you're aware of that. You haven't eaten anything all day; and don't start with the coffee, that's not food. It's… 12:48 now; that's eighteen hours. Whether or not you have an appetite, you're hungry."
Reid stares at the dashboard.
"You gotta eat, Reid, even if you don't feel like it. We finally put some meat on those bones, we're not about to lose that progress." Morgan opens his door. "Don't make me drag you kicking and screaming."
The halfhearted threat finally gets him moving and he drags himself out of the car with the vigor of a 70-year-old. Morgan feels no regret. His demeanor improves once they enter the restaurant and Derek's not sure whether to be pleased or peeved that Reid hasn't bothered pulling any punches with him.
"Ah, Dr. Reid… It's been a long time," the middle-aged Indian woman in the process of sweeping, greets them with the hint of an accent.
"Hi Rita," Reid responds with his friendly, closed-mouth grin. "If you're closing, it's fine, we can-"
"No, no, no…. I'm just cleaning up. Besides, for you, I'm always open."
The goofy grin gets a little less goofy. "How are you? How's Manny, and everyone?"
"Manny's good, he's good. I'm good too, most days. We're all good. As for Ana," Rita sighs, heading behind the counter. "She's still single, if you're interested. I don't understand it… She's pretty, she's smart, she's skinny, she has a good job... Maybe she's too skinny? I just don't know with her…"
The grin makes its return, as Reid listens, his gaze dropping to the floor every couple of seconds.
"…What about you? It's been months."
"I'm okay, I'm fine," Reid brushes her off, his voice gaining in pitch. Morgan almost rolls his eyes. Apparently the kid uses that on everyone.
"Anyone special?"
Derek's standing three feet away from Reid yet he can feel him go still. There's a split second before he recovers, and in that second, the abject despair that flashes through Reid's features makes Morgan rue this little plan he cooked up. But then the moment ends and Reid swallows it down and forces another half-smile.
"No. No one."
Morgan attempts to apologize by catching Reid's eye but the guy refuses to meet his.
"Well, what can I get you, Dr. Reid? And you, handsome?"
"Why don't you pick, I like anything," Spencer shrugs.
Morgan tries to remember what he likes at this place but fails. "What did I get last time we were here?"
"Chicken tikka. It's pretty awesome."
"Yeah, that."
Fifteen minutes later, Rita emerges, laden with dishes. "I have all your favorites. Some chaat, tandoori, palak paneer, roti…"
"This is way too much," Reid rubs his forehead.
"And you're way too skinny. And pale. And tired. You look like you haven't eaten in a week. You can't catch your serial killers if you're starving. They'll look at you and think 'I could snap this guy with one hand'."
Morgan laughs, digging into his chicken, while Reid blushes, surrounded by three giant serving dishes. Good to know he's not the only one on the kid's case. He feels a rush of affection for this woman he knows nothing about. He should take Reid up on his dinner suggestions more often.
"Eat something, doctor. You'll feel better," Rita finishes, patting Reid on the shoulder before making herself scarce
He eats. A little, and a little more, and Morgan, out of the goodness of his heart, helps him out, and by the time they leave they're both stuffed and still Rita forces chai and a weird dessert on them 'for the road'.
"So why does she like you so much, doctor?" Morgan asks once they're back in the car.
"I told her to call me 'Spencer' about a dozen times, but she never seems to get the memo," Reid mutters, buckling his seat-belt. Morgan smiles and patiently waits for him to continue, staring him down in the meantime. He folds in ten seconds, flushing as he answers.
"I got her mom an appointment with a specialist I know. She's convinced it saved her life."
"There are worse things in the world than gratitude, kid."
"It just… it wasn't a big deal. I would've done it for anyone."
"That's the whole damn point."
"I still find it uncomfortable."
And Morgan can't argue with that; many people find gratitude uncomfortable. They get underway and he samples the donut hole dessert thing and Reid loosens his tie and leans back, shutting his eyes briefly. His tie usage has been spotty lately.
The streets are deserted as they work their way across DC. Morgan's used to it, with the hours they keep, but sometimes the hushed silence gets to him. Doesn't help that the rain has tapered off completely, leaving everything damp and glistening. Man, he can't wait for this winter to end. Reid's gone mute again. The car feels cold, even with the heat blasting. By the time they reach his building, it's nearly two. He musters a 'thank you', gathering himself to get out when Morgan stops him.
"Hey, Reid."
He turns.
"It's been seven weeks… now, I know you're not okay. That's fine. I just hope you know you can talk to me. About her, about an-"
"Don't- Just… I can't." Reid rubs his eyes roughly and grips his bag. "Not now, maybe not ever. I just can't. But thank you."
"That's okay," Morgan says quietly. "But I need you to know that I'm here. For anything. You wanna talk, you wanna get a movie, you wanna… sit in silence and contemplate the damn moon, I'm here. If it ever gets too much... too difficult, you call me, okay? No expiration date. I'm not saying you can, I'm saying please do. Are you hearing me?"
Reid's hair obscures Morgan's view of his face as he nods. He makes no move to exit the car. A minute passes. Derek can hear himself breathing. Sitting in silence is harder than it sounds, especially for him; he tends to prefer letting things out; talking, yelling, smashing a wall, anything. But Reid is different, about as different as it gets. Another minute passes.
"Things are really difficult right now," Reid finally manages, a waver in his voice.
"I know they are." Kid hasn't as much as teared up since that first night.
"Do you know why I offered to stay in Elkins? I just didn't want to go home."
Morgan figured. Reid continues, his voice growing stronger.
"I love my apartment. I got it right out of the academy, it was the first place that was mine alone. I didn't have much money at first so it took me years to fully furnish it and I still have way too many books and nowhere to put them, and my chairs don't match, and my kitchen is so woefully under-equipped, it's absurd," Reid laughs, staring at his building. "But that never mattered. In fact, I like it that way. I was always happy to get home and sleep in my own bed and trip over my own ottomans. Now, though… It just feels empty. Suffocating. All I do up there is think and I don't want to think, I want to forget, I wanna shut my brain off, if only for an hour, but I can't. And I've felt this way before, and it scares me, because I know… I know what…"
Reid trails off and breathes for a few seconds. "I'm sorry. I know I've been unpleasant the last few weeks. Thanks for listening. I'm gonna… I'm gonna go now. Goodnight." He makes to leave and Morgan grabs his arm.
"Uh, uh, uh.. No way."
"It's after two, Derek, and you were tired five hours ago. Go home and go to sleep. I'm gonna be okay."
"Sit your ass down, kid. You're not making a getaway now. I got seven and a half hours last night; that's practically a coma in our world. Besides, it's not a school night. We got the day off tomorrow."
Reid hesitates but gives in without much of a fight, shutting the door he'd opened. "I'm sorry for worrying you, I really am okay. I'm not gonna… I wouldn't start using again. If I did, I don't… I don't think I'd come back. So I won't. It was actually worse after Emily… It's just…"
He's working himself into a frenzy. "Reid. It's alright. Just calm down. Relax. You don't have to explain yourself to me. Is every day this bad, or is today special?"
"Today's pretty special," He admits with a small laugh. He sounds relieved.
"Drink your tea," Morgan orders, because he's got no idea what to say. Reid looks at him oddly, but complies.
"If you are cold, tea will warm you; if you are too heated, it will cool you; If you are depressed, it will cheer you; If you are excited, it will calm you," he rattles off. "William Ewart Gladstone. He was wrong, of course, but the sentiment is nice. I prefer Dostoevsky; I say let the world go to hell, but I should always have my tea."
The quoting seem to calm him more than the tea does.
"I've never actually contemplated the moon. I mean, I have, I've studied its properties extensively, but I've never actually just… looked at it."
"I guess that's the curse of having a brain like yours, you can't just switch it off," Morgan says, trying his own tea. It's too sweet. No wonder Reid likes it. "So is that what we're doing tonight? Staring at the moon?"
Reid smiles faintly and rubs his neck. "No, that's okay, I won't subject you to that. Besides, I don't think the moon makes for much of a distraction."
Morgan's struck with an idea. "You know what, kid… I know just the thing." Without further ado, he zips down the quiet street, and heads straight for Buffolino Field. Reid smiles when they arrive and doesn't bother lingering in the car, but the objections come hard and swift.
"I'm pretty sure we're trespassing."
"I can't make it over that fence."
"We don't have any equipment."
"It just rained, the field's gonna be waterlogged."
"Excuses, excuses… Don't tell me you've never broken the law, Sin City," Morgan jokes, leading him around the bend where the fencing is lower. "In fact, I know you did; no way you had time to get banned from all those casinos after 21. Man, I can't believe they bought whatever fake ID you were selling with the way you must've looked."
"There are plenty of tricks to look older that are easy to master," Reid states, pleased with himself. "Simply not shaving for a few days can add years to your appearance."
"You're kidding."
"I know it may come as a shock to you, but I have no trouble growing facial hair."
Morgan grins. "Oh, now this I gotta see. Next time we're in Vegas, you're going undercover. I wanna see gambling you in action."
"Technically, you already have."
"That didn't count." Morgan scales the lower fence and watches Reid do the same in clumsier fashion. "We were working, and I didn't see you, and there was no beard."
"I did make Rossi 36,867 dollars in just under three hours," Reid casually tosses out, straightening his jacket. "We still have no equipment."
"All we need is a bat and a few balls," Morgan says, heading for the equipment shed behind the right-field bleachers. "Ah.. damn." The door is padlocked.
"Here." Reid rummages in his bag and produces a paperclip which he fiddles with and proceeds to work on the lock.
"You know, you think you know a guy…"
"When you're locked out of your dorm on a regular basis, you learn to adapt," Reid mutters, focused on the padlock.
"Really? In college? Still?"
"People don't fully mature until at least the age of twenty-five. Some never do at all… Got it." He steps back, letting Morgan into the shed. "You know, we've moved on from trespassing to petty larceny. Maybe throw breaking and entering in as well."
"Relax, Reid," Morgan calls back, searching by his phone's flashlight. "I use this field all the time. Here we go." He hands Reid a wooden bat and commandeers a stocked ball cart. The sky is no longer overcast and the moon is nearing fullness, giving them decent visibility. And it's a warm night for late February; no lower than 40. Reid sheds his jacket and practices his swing.
"Am I doing this correctly?"
"Your form ain't half bad, there's just no power in it."
"How do I fix that?"
Morgan laughs, toting the cart out to the pitcher's mound. "You put some force into it. Channel your anger, frustration, whatever you got... Don't you ever feel like hitting someone, kid?"
Reid shrugs, tapping home plate with his bat, like a veteran. "Not really. I mean, there are plenty of unsubs I want to see punished; some I even want dead. But I'm not particularly interested in punching them."
Morgan shakes his head and laughs. It's about what he expects from Reid, the kid doesn't have a violent bone in his body. It's one of the reasons he's always felt comfortable around him. Typically, it takes Derek years to fully trust someone, especially a guy, but with Reid all it took was a month or two. He's easily his best male friend and Morgan doubts they'd be as close if he was a regular guy. Before Reid, there was another dude on the team, Dalton, just a year younger than him. They got along okay, but they were never close. And as much as he respects, and even trusts Hotch and Rossi, Morgan doesn't go around slapping Hotch on the back and patting Rossi on the head, and it ain't age alone that holds him back; in general, he doesn't get demonstrative with men.
Reid is different. There's a gentleness and constancy to him that's reassuring, a sincerity which makes Morgan's usual defenses unnecessary. Morgan is not a man who bares his secrets with impunity, he's not a man who confides in people, but if he ever did, if he ever had something he needed to let out, he knows he'd be safe doing that with Reid. He wouldn't want to, because the kid is someone he tries to protect however he can, but he could, and that's what matters. Reid would never judge him, would never betray his confidence, not even to another team member, and, maybe most importantly, would never change his opinion of him. Morgan knows these things as fact and he loves Reid for them. As much grief as he gives him, he's grateful that Reid is Reid and not another pedestrian alpha male, so common in the Bureau's ranks. Besides, the kid's hair is just asking to be messed with, never mind his skinny shoulders and outlandish wardrobe; Morgan can't be blamed for getting handsy. It's too damn fun.
"I think I'm ready," Reid calls from home base.
"Alright… These should be pretty easy to hit." He wasn't about to drag the pitching machine and net out, so it's just him and his arm. "Try not to smash my face with a line drive."
"I'll do what I can to preserve that perfect jaw."
"Laugh it up, pretty boy. But you know… people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," Morgan yells back before firing off the first ball. Good old swing and a miss. Same with the next two.
"You know it's pretty dark out here, makes it hard to track the balls."
"Man, you're just full of excuses, aren't you?"
"I didn't get seven and half hours of sleep last night."
"Is it dark, or are you tired? Gotta make up your mind, Reid."
Another three misses. The bat connects on the seventh but it's fouled off to the left. Morgan might have to rescind his statement regarding Reid's hidden athleticism. He's swinging harder, though, and when he connects on ball #31, it sails over the stands and lands out of the field.
"There you go! Tell me that didn't feel good," Morgan calls.
"It was oddly satisfying," Reid admits, sweeping his hair out of his face. "I'm not sure why."
They go through at least a hundred more baseballs, and half a dozen more shouting matches, before the cart is empty. Reid misses a lot more than he hits, but he doesn't seem to mind, smiling and watching the ball's arc each time he makes contact.
"Is that- are you actually sweating?" Morgan exclaims, as they begin reclaiming all the misses amassed behind home plate. "I don't think I've ever seen you break a sweat before. Not even in that warehouse during that Tallahassee case."
"I am from Las Vegas," Reid says, crouching to collect four balls. "We have highs of ninety and above from May until October."
"Scratch that, I did see you sweat once, but you happened to have anthrax," Morgan plows on, letting Reid do all the work. Kid ain't the only one who exerted himself. "But seriously, Reid, you should exercise. I don't need to tell you about all the benefits. It might help."
"I know. Deliberate exercise is incredibly awkward, though. I walk plenty, that's gotta count."
Morgan pictures Reid at the gym and can't contain a snort of laughter from escaping.
"What?"
"I'm imagining you in a gym."
"Urgh," Reid shudders, less amused by the thought. "Gyms are veritable petri dishes. Staph, MRSA, ringworm, the flu, even herpes... I know there are pathogens everywhere, but in gyms, your skin comes in contact with all the equipment by design and you're often sweating. It's truly horrific. In my top ten places to avoid, for multiple reasons."
Morgan finds himself shuddering along; vivid picture, Reid paints... "Good thing I got a home set-up."
They move on to the outfield, slowly plodding through the muddy turf, using his flashlight to illuminate the way.
"How many did you hit out of the infield?"
"22. Half should be in the outfield, eight more in the bleachers, and the other three out of the park."
Morgan chuckles at the summary. No matter how many times he witnesses Reid in action, he still finds it amazing and oftentimes amusing. Not to mention useful. They clear the outfield quickly, but the stands take a lot longer, and Reid insists on going after the three off-grounds, despite the fact that they won't be missed, so by the time they finish, it's nearing five in the morning.
"Gonna be dawn soon," Reid comments idly, lanky legs stretched out along the uppermost bench of one of the bleachers. He maneuvers his right shoulder experimentally. "I'm gonna be incredibly sore tomorrow." Morgan's lying two rows down, his arms behind his head. They just sort of ended up here after locking up the shed.
"Wanna go get your tea?" Morgan asks, after a prolonged yawn.
"No. It wasn't sweet enough."
Morgan pauses in disbelief before chuckling. "She must've mixed 'em up. Cause mine was sweet as all hell." Reid smiles tiredly, catching his eye.
It's silent. What little wind was present during their batting session is gone, replaced by a pre-dawn calm. A lone bird begins to chirp in the distance.
"What are you working on these days?" Morgan asks, sitting up to give his back some relief.
"Hm?"
"You're always studying something and I know you finished your philosophy degree when you were laid up with the knee. Whatchya been working on since?"
"I, um…" Reid clears his throat and scratches his forearm. "I started working on my physics degree, I always intended to get a physics PhD eventually…"
"…But?"
"But I stopped. Instead, I... I started studying music." He looks downright guilt-ridden, like he's admitting to being a kleptomaniac or something. "I've been doing that for the past… almost two years."
"Bit of a change from the hard sciences."
"Yeah."
Morgan observes him for a moment before shaking his head. "C'mon Reid… Enough with the self-flagellating bs… None of us are getting degrees every couple of years, that's just you. And, yeah, I know we don't have your head, but, kid… no matter how smart you are, there are only twenty-four hours in a day and we work more than full time. You need breaks, same as the rest of us."
"I know," Reid mutters, with a grimace that indicates he doesn't.
"Why music?"
"I don't know… I like it?"
"Is that a question?"
"No. It's…" Reid stares at the sky, checking himself. Morgan thinks it might have gotten a shade or two lighter. "When my headaches started, I couldn't focus, in fact, I could barely read. It was unrelated, but I bought a keyboard around that time and I had no trouble with that, so I'd spend all my free time learning and I… I loved it."
"And that's bad, why?"
"It's not bad. I just didn't expect to like it as much as I do or be good at it. I've spent most of my life exercising my left brain, I never gave much consideration to the right. And I didn't expect my fingers to comply but they did. About a year and a half ago, I upgraded to a piano, and now I'm working on Rachmaninoff."
"I assume that's hard."
"It is."
"So you're a musical genius in addition to being a everything-else genius," Morgan summarizes, staring at Reid, trying to figure out what's going on in that head. "And it took you thirty years to figure that out. You feel like you missed out, is that it?"
"No, that's… that's besides the point. I like it a little too much. It's hard to explain. I'm not very good at putting my thoughts into words."
"So let me get this straight," Morgan laughs, leaning back again. "You've been hiding the fact that you're studying music like it's a dirty little secret, because you feel guilty for enjoying it too much? You think you owe it to the world to get your fourth PhD, but instead of quantum mechanics, or whatever, you're busy playing music and loving it? You're supposed to be reading books but instead you're wasting time at a piano?"
Reid avoids his eye and smiles briefly. "It's addictive in its own way. The dopamine release produced by music can mimic a high. It's… it's downright thrilling, being able to play things I've spent years listening to. Gotten to the point where I'm wondering what instrument I want to try next. I've even composed a few things. I don't think they're any good, but it's fun."
"You haven't had much fun in your life, have you?"
"I haven't had much time," Reid laughs to himself. "Growing up, I was always so focused on academics, I didn't have time for anything else. It was always a race to the finish line. In college there were literally hundreds of student groups I could have joined, but I never gave a second thought to them. Many of them were political in nature and I'm not a political person, but even something like the chess club… it never occurred to me to join. You know, the irony is… I have an engineering degree I never use, a chemistry degree I rarely use, and a mathematics degree I use sporadically."
It took until the five o'clock hour for it to happen, but listening to the kid talk, Morgan thinks he's finally hearing from that other Reid, the one no one really knows, the one whose thoughts and feelings are hidden behind decades of conditioning and restraint. His voice is different, less meticulous, more casual. He sounds exhausted. He sounds like he's talking to himself, like Morgan's not present. Sometimes, on the jet, in the bullpen, Morgan'll spot Reid staring into nowhere and wonder if he even knows the guy at all. It's not lost on him that, relatively speaking, they're all mentally challenged compared to him. Not that he thinks Spencer has a whole other life or personality hidden up his sleeve, or that he looks down on them in any way, just that he holds back parts of himself he thinks they wouldn't want to see. Even when he opens up, he's always careful, always guarded, always filtering his words, never giving away too much. Now, he's rambling, more sober than he regularly allows himself to be, not about some obscure statistic or fact, but about himself. It's… interesting. He rarely talks about his personal thoughts or feelings without couching them in facts and figures.
"Do you regret getting all those degrees?"
"No, it's not like that," Reid says, glancing at him. "I do love learning. I love science and numbers and patterns, in particular. I never really knew what I wanted to do, though. I was always moving from one subject to the next, one research project to another. I wanted to… I didn't know what I wanted. I still don't. I joined the FBI, wanting to get into the BAU, because…" He chuckles, a weird, uninhibited sound. "Because it sounded cool. I was young and Gideon was giving a lecture and I thought profiling sounded interesting enough for a career."
"Sounds like you're having a third-life crisis," Morgan states, not wanting to disrupt Reid's rambling, for once.
"Oh, I've had about five of those," Reid smiles, shivering slightly. "Every couple of years I wonder why I'm in the BAU, and I always come back to the same four things: It's still cool, even though it's also awful, I really like helping people, I've yet to find something I'd rather do, and finally, because I… I can't imagine living without you guys."
And sometimes Reid says things like that which makes Derek want to throw an arm around him and teach him how to laugh. Reid never laughs. Not freely, anyway. Morgan doubts he knows how. He's always alert, almost like he's waiting for someone to jump out and yell 'gotcha'. Closest he gets is when he's with children.
"Ah, Reid…" Morgan yawns and relocates to the top bench, nudging Reid's legs out of the way. "This job… It's crazy, and it's horrible, but I love it. And I know you do too. We've saved hundreds of people from awful deaths. We've put families back together. We see the worst humanity has to offer and we're still able to smile. Now, I take pride in that. I take pride in this job, in the team, in every person we save and every monster we put down. You need to be able to do that too. You hold yourself to impossible standards, Reid. I get it. You have a gift, you have a mind that's one in a million… You grew up with an insane amount of expectations and now you feel guilty for every minute you think you're not living up to them. Let me tell you something, kid; besides for your mama, you don't owe anyone a damn thing. You don't owe the world your mind, your life, or your happiness. So you gotta stop apologizing for who you are and what you want. There's nothing wrong with any decisions you've made, there's nothing wrong with you. You're doing a hell of a lot of good right now. And I don't care how smart you are, you're still human. You feel things the same way the rest of us do. You're allowed to want whatever you want. You don't have to be the mad genius if you don't want to be. You want more, go get more. You want to become an astrophysicist, go ahead. But if you want to stay here, then stay here and don't apologize for it. Become a pianist, if it makes you happy. Play the damn tuba, if that's what floats your boat. You can do anything, but that doesn't mean you have to do everything."
Silence follows his soliloquy. Derek tries to go through everything he said, knowing Reid could cite him word for word. It can be scary, the fact that the guy remembers every word spoken to him. Maybe that's why he's so tight-lipped when it comes to his own thoughts.
"That's quite a speech," Reid says finally, no trace of humor in his voice. He stares out at the field, lost in thought, and when he speaks again, Morgan can barely hear him. "I am happy here. But there are other things I want. Or… or wanted."
He's blinking fast. Morgan swallows. "I know, kid… I know." He risks a hand on Reid's shoulder and squeezes; Reid just barely leans into the contact. Morgan figures since it was brought up, he can talk about it. "I know what you lost and I'm sorry. I'm sorry it went down the way it did. I wish things were different. I wish we weren't here right now."
Reid nods, biting his lip and staring down at his hands, his leg shaking nervously. Morgan can feel the effort it's taking for him to hold it together. He looks away, giving him a semblance of privacy. Minutes pass. Reid stills. Morgan looks back.
"I know it's hard right now. I know it may feel like the end. But it's not. It's very far from the end. You may not want to hear it, Reid, but believe me, you'll have those things one day."
"You think so?" Reid mutters, glancing off to his right.
"I do," Morgan assures. "You're grieving right now and that's okay. That's normal. You take as long as you need. I know what it's like. I know how it comes and goes and sometimes it hits you so hard you feel like giving up. Believe me, I know. It won't last forever; it does end. I also know what it's like to want more; to want those other things. I want those things too, for you and for myself. But listen to me, Reid… you can't put your life on hold, waiting to be happy. You gotta find things that bring you joy. Even now. Especially now. It's tempting to bury yourself in the job, to shut the world out, shut all of us out, and that's okay for a little bit, I understand. But there's more out there. You gotta find things that bring you peace here and now."
"Like what?" Reid finally looks at him, his expression betraying his apprehension. "I haven't even been able to play anything, since…"
The sky is definitely a couple of shades lighter. Morgan listens to the birds chirping, suddenly aware of the warm fatigue in his limbs. He feels out of his depth. "I don't know," He admits with a sigh. "Maybe try something different, y'know? You live in your head so much, kid, I swear sometimes I don't know a damn thing about you."
Reid manages a small smile. "That's not true."
"I know," Morgan concedes, returning the smile, because for however much he doesn't know Reid, he does know him twice as well. "Maybe a change of pace would help. You could use some of those vacation days for an actual vacation. I can take some time too; It's been a long, ugly winter, we can go somewhere sunny. You could even wear a t-shirt. Maybe learn to surf. What do you say? I could see you as a surfer dude, in another life. You already got the hair and face for it."
Reid manages another smile, this one a little bigger. That right there is why Morgan knows he will be okay. Reid has many strengths but perhaps his most powerful one is his ability to piece himself back together when he breaks. "I don't really li-"
"-Like the beach. Yeah, I know." Morgan elbows him just because he feels like it. "Look, what I'm saying is… You gotta get outta this head." -He ruffles the hair on said head- "Let your guard down, just a little. Cut yourself some slack, Reid. I know that might be hard to do, but it's worth it. You got a whole lotta life ahead of you and even though you're down right now, that doesn't mean you gotta stop living, doesn't mean you can't have moments of happiness too. Am I making any sense?"
"Vaguely," Reid murmurs, picking at his fingers. "Carpe diem, in a nutshell."
"Sounds about right."
"I'm not the most… spontaneous person, you might have noticed..."
"Never too late to start," Morgan insists, jostling him again. "How about this, Reid… tell me one thing you've always wanted to do."
"I don't know…" He flashes one of those self-conscious smiles that always makes Morgan think of what his mama would do if she got her hands on him. "I wanted to join the circus when I was four."
"Not that. I mean something you actually wanna do."
"Well, I've…" Reid trails off and considers his answer. "I've always wanted to ride a horse. And not just to trot around on an old mare, I want to race a thoroughbred."
"Okay…" Morgan says, grinning at the ambition. "Okay, we can work with that. Getting a little ahead of ourselves, but we can start. Next time we have off, you, me, and Garcia are finding ourselves a ranch and learning to ride. Deal?"
Reid nods, amused. "Okay. Although, I can't really picture Penelope on a horse."
"We'll get her there."
"Y'know, we should go. We've entered nautical dawn," Reid says at length, slipping his bag over his shoulder.
Morgan rises slowly, his legs a little numb, and follows Reid down the bleachers. "I bet we can even rope Rossi into it. Something tells me he's ridden a horse before. He might come just to gloat."
"As long as he's not wearing his precious Italian leather loafers."
"So I'm not the only one who noticed?"
"No, you're not."
They climb over the fence, tittering a little drunkenly as they take cheap shots at Rossi, while the chorus of the birds gets shriller.
"You know, some might say you're corrupting me," Reid throws out on their meandering trek across the parking lot.
"Well, they don't have your best interests at heart, like I do."
The comment was meant to be in jest but the ensuing silence lends it considerable gravity. Morgan has rarely felt more like an older brother as they settle in the SUV for the fifth time.
"Home?"
Reid nods, this time with no hesitation. The fifteen-minute drive is quiet and uneventful, both of their eyes drooping a little, even as the sky brightens around them. Reid doesn't tense up when they approach his street but he does linger before getting out. "Morgan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For everything. Really."
"There's no need, Reid," Morgan rubs the fatigue from his lids with his thumb and index finger. "You're my friend. When you're hurting, I gotta help any way I can." The early morning hour combined with the sleep deprivation are making him franker than usual. He finds he doesn't mind. It's Reid.
Reid looks at him with those eyes of his. "Thank you for being my friend, then."
And sometimes Spencer hits him on the head with statements like those, brimming with the kind of honesty usually only found in children. It forces a lump into Morgan's throat. "Anytime, kid."
Reid smiles and leaves and Morgan watches him go, that lump in his throat sinking to his stomach. He should go, the sun's about to break, and it's another twenty minutes to his place, but something keeps him immobile. Reid continues, making for his building. His apartment. The apartment he loves and dreads. The apartment that's empty. Lonely. No matter what he says or does, nothing changes that. It's all just pain relief for an incurable wound. The kid should be up there right now, holding her, not wandering around all night with him.
Morgan gets out of the car. By the time he catches up with Reid, he's entering his security code on the keypad, and Morgan turns him by the shoulder and hugs him tightly. After he recovers from the ambush, Reid returns the gesture, one-handed.
"Remember, anything, anytime," Morgan presses when he lets go.
Reid nods and smiles again and escapes into his building and Morgan knows he won't call. Can't bring himself to. That doesn't mean Derek will ever stop offering.
Thanks for reading
Any and all comments are welcome :D