[fic]: one time too many [part 1]
[mood| 
quiet]
Title: One time too many [part 1]
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Agent down! from criminal_prompt
Summary: Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised. [...] And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday - he would do it one time too many.
Note: some clichés are just begging to be written. I know. :)
Spencer Reid was, notoriously, a genius.
He had an IQ of 187, supposedly higher than Einstein's, and graduated from high school when he was twelwe. He could decipher riddles with an almost annoying lack of effort, and thwart or conceive the most complex, subtle of plans. He could read twenty thousand words per minute, and remember word by word of pretty much anything he'd read with that photographic memory of his.
("It's called eidetic, Morgan."
"That's what I said, kid.")
Morgan could still remember one night they'd spent on the jet - flying back home. He sat fiddling with his watch, bored after his Ipod had run out of battery, too worked up to sleep - and he'd met Reid's gentle smile across the half-darkness. He'd gone to sit with him, and something in his eyes must have given him away - Reid had curled up in a corner of the sofa, and had recited him the first few chapters of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. His voice was low and soothing, and Morgan had found himself smiling and quietly drifting off about the time Billy Pilgrim stood in his garden, waiting for the Trafalmadorians' flying saucer to come.
(Reid had never mentioned it afterwards, but, for a few days - his smile had seemed, if possible, even warmer than usual.)
Reid was lecturing students that were often older than he was - maybe that was why he always ended up complaining they didn't get his jokes. He wrote brilliant papers on every subject that struck his fancy, and was currently working on his umpteenth degree in some overly-intellectual subject.
(It was his third, and it was in philosophy. Also, Reid was currently vehemently arguing with Plato on the allegorical significance of some cave myth. Not that Morgan would ever admit he knew all this - or that he would, from time to time, ask Garcia to hack into the university database to check on Reid's progression. Just to make sure the kid had enough time to study, that was.)
So, yes: all considered, Morgan had to concede that the kid was, indeed, a genius.
And yet, sometimes - Spencer Reid was an idiot.
---
"Donald, put the gun down. Please," Reid's voice chided, gentle. "I promise no one will harm you."
Morgan could hear ragged breathing in the background, as a sizzling silence stretched for the following seconds. He pressed his earpiece as deep as it would go, trying to block every other sound as he swiftly moved along the corridor, heading for the hotel room where Hotch and Reid had the Unsub cornered.
"This place is a fucking labyrinth," muttered one of the SWAT guys following him - and Morgan almost snarled in his face, growling "Shut up!," as he heard an unknown, shaky voice speak, a little muffled by the distance.
"I can't. I have to - I need..."
The following words were drowned by a static. Morgan barely refrained from swearing aloud.
"Donald - you don't want to do this," Reid said, soothing. "I know that you feel like there is no other option - like you will never feel better again. But I swear to God, if you put the gun down - I'll help you. We'll find the help you need. You have to believe - that you can make it."
The static crackled. "No one can help me," the Unsub whimpered. He sounded very young, very scared, and most likely under the effects of a drug of sort. Straining, Morgan could hear a faint click - like someone unlocking the safety of a gun. He felt something that was cold and sharp run down his back, like an icy worm crawling its way under his skin.
"You don't wanna die, Donald," Reid almost pleaded. And Morgan - Morgan suddenly remembered.
---
"He's sending out mixed messages. It's weird," had commented Reid, staring at the billboard and chewing lightly on his bottom lip. "If we profile the notes he left on the crime scenes and his private emails, what we get is the portrait of an individual with overwhelming suicidal tendencies, not a killer."
"Considering the level of obsession he shows in his writing, if he was really suicidal, he would have killed himself a long time ago," Morgan had replied, skimming through the papers scattered on the table. "This doesn't make any sense."
Reid's eyes had narrowed. "It's almost as if - on some level, he wants to die, but he is too afraid to actually kill himself."
"So maybe that's why he's targeting males with a body structure that's definitely stronger than the average," Morgan had said. "Maybe he's hoping one of them will fight back and kill him. A sort of indirect, passive-aggressive suicide."
"Maybe," had said Reid, slow, without tearing his eyes from the board. He had frowned. "Maybe, he wants someone to stop him."
---
Morgan felt his knees go weak as was hit by the realization, hard and sudden like a punch in the guts - and it was at once clear that he wasn't the only one to have made the connection.
"He's gonna make us shoot him," exclaimed Hotch, and his words resounded into Morgan's earpiece like a death sentence. Burning sweat broke out on his forehead, his back, as he heard Rossi yelling something in the distance -
"Reid, get out of there!" he shouted, causing the SWAT guys to jump in surprise. No answer.
"Donald. You don't have to," said Reid's voice, gentle.
"I have no choice," the Unsub replied, almost apologetic. And then -
("Oh God," whispered Prentiss, somewhere in the building,)
- Morgan could hear a gunshot, hitting his ear-drum like a blow - and right after, chaos exploded in his earpiece, deafening him with yells and shots and loud thumps. Morgan tried to swallow.
He could not hear Reid's voice.
---
An utter, complete idiot.
Like, for example, that time he tried to talk down a crazed delusional boy who was holding a rifle almost as big as a goddamn machine gun - and he actually succeeded, for God's sake. Or the time he thrusted his gun into Morgan's hands and walked to face a man loaded with explosives, armed with nothing but his speech. Or when he went to stand between the team and an armed killer, without even wearing a damn vest, trying to prevent them from shooting...
"You'll have to accept the fact," Morgan had said, always the big brother, so wise and experienced, so stuck up his own ass - God, how he wanted to kick himself when he thought about it - "That we can't save everyone." Reid had nodded, then, had said he understood, but Morgan, deep down, knew - Reid may have acknowledged it, but that didn't mean he'd started believing it just yet.
Morgan could, on some level, understand. The feeling of being expendable, maybe - of having to demonstrate he could actually help, he could make a difference. Somehow, maybe Reid was still trying to prove that he was worthy of the position he held, that his brain could be an asset out in the field as well.
Or, maybe, Reid simply didn't want to see people die. And Morgan could understand that, too - but, honestly, he was freaking tired of risking a heart attack every time. Over the years, he'd learned that, if you couldn't save everyone, you had to get your priorities straight. And, if the choice was between Reid and the psycho of the moment - it was simply a no-brainer.
Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised, relying only in his voice and brain - because, deep down, he still wanted to believe that reasoning and talking should always be enough.
And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday - he would do it one time too many.
---
Morgan was hurrying through the corridors when the shots died out, and the noises calmed down enough to let him hear Hotch, calling - "Clear!" And then, louder - the closest to yelling he'd ever heard him - "Agent down! Send up the medics - I got an agent down!"
"Hotch!" He barked, as he nearly rammed in the wall a policeman who hadn't moved promptly enough out of his way. "Status! What the hell happened there?"
There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the line. "Morgan," Hotch said finally, his voice calm and strained. "Get over here." He paused for an instant before he added, almost under his breath - "Make it fast."
And Morgan ran. He got to goddamn room 207 with his head throbbing and his lungs on fire, striding past the SWAT guys that cluttered the doorway. He quickly surveyed the room, panting, and spared a quick glance to a body, strewn across the floor, which was clearly the Unsub and which was also rather clearly dead. You got what you wanted, at last, you son of a bitch, he thought vaguely, and then - then, he saw Reid.
He was slumped against the wall, half-seated, one of his long legs bent. He was trying fruitlessly to hold himself up with one arm - Morgan could see the way his hand kept slipping on the tiled floor, his elbow threatening to give way. Hotch was crouching beside him, holding him by the shoulders, preventing him from falling sideways.
"Sorry," he heard Reid say, his voice thin. "Hotch - I thought I could..."
He stopped, blinking slowly, and leaned his head back against the wall. Hotch gripped his shoulders harder. "It's alright. Now, you just keep looking at me. You - Morgan, get over here, now."
Morgan had to fight not to throw himself at Reid's side, forcing himself to kneel slowly. (Stay calm. Just - remain calm.) He swallowed as he scanned Reid's body, trying to assess the damage - trying desperately to detach his mind from the fact that it was Reid, damn it. Reid, who was pressing one hand against his stomach - Morgan hissed as he saw dark blood, trickling through his fingers. It had already soaked part of his cardigan and was now dripping slowly on the floor, starting to pool at Reid's side.
“What happened?” Morgan asked, stupidly, and couldn't quite prevent his voice from sounding strangled.
Hotch looked at him briefly. “The Unsub had time to shoot before we brought him down,” he said, his jaw set, hard. “Hold him. I'll get something to try and slow the bleeding. Keep him talking.”
Morgan brought his hands to Reid's shoulders, steadying him as Hotch slowly released his grip and moved away. Reid opened his eyes, and his gaze seemed to take longer than usual to focus on Morgan's face - he swallowed, then let out a soft moan. Morgan felt like someone had smacked him right across the face.
“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice husky. His brain felt goddamn puffy, and was just refusing to think straight. “Looks like you got yourself in another mess. I'm getting tired of this habit of yours, you know.”
Reid's lips twitched in the smallest, pained grin. “Know. 'M sorry,” he mumbled. “Thought I could - help him.”
“It's alright, kid. You did good.” Morgan shifted closer, adjusting his grip on Reid's arms. He stared straight into Reid's eyes, trying to force a smile out. “You do something like this again, though, I'm smacking you.”
Reid actually snorted a half-attemp to a laugh. “I'm counting - on it,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, wetting his lips, as his chest heaved. “Reid,” Morgan called - as Hotch crouched back down with a small curtain he'd all but ripped off its rings. He pressed it against Reid's abdomen, causing him to hiss in pain, with a sharp breath. When Reid looked back at Morgan, his eyes seemed clouded.
“Reid,” Morgan called, fighting the urge to shake him. “Kid, listen to me. You gotta stay awake. Reid - ” Reid's head was slowly lolling forward, as he struggled to remain conscious. Morgan brought one hand to brush Reid's hair away from his face, then cupped his cheek, helping him remain upright. He felt Reid lean heavily against his touch, his eyes half-closed, his lips almost gray. His skin felt cold.
“Reid. Come on, stay with me, man,” Morgan said, as he tried frantically to think of something which would help. A sudden, crazy inspiration sparkled in his mind - God, maybe he'd gone insane. Or maybe he was starting to get the hang of this genius thing. “Reid. Reid,” he called, raising his voice to get his attention. “Prime numbers. Count for me. Can you do it?”
He saw Reid swallow, his lips moving silently as he tried to speak. He wet his lips, then seemed to focus once again on Morgan's eyes. “Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven...” he started, slow. His voice was barely audible, but steady. “Thirteen. Seventeen - nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one.”
“That's it. Talk to me, kid,” Morgan urged. He could feel commotion somewhere outside the room, and he prayed fervently that the medics were there at goddamn last.
“Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven - ” Reid whispered. He had to pause, struggling for breath, and leaned further against Morgan's hand. Their gazes met, and they stared into each other's eyes for a few, endless seconds, as Reid breathed hard, fighting to remain awake - Reid's eyes burning with effort, Morgan's wide in incredulous fear.
“M'rgan,'” Reid managed to get out, between gritted teeth. “'m sorry. So s'rry.” And then, as a gleamy stain of blood appeared on the inside of his pale lips, he breathed - “F'rgive me.”
Morgan's chest tightened so hard he thought he would bloody choke. “It's alright. Kid - Reid, it's alright,” he said, stroking his thumb over Reid's cheekbone, trying to keep his voice even. “You're gonna be fine. Just - stay with me. Keep talking, kid.”
Reid closed his eyes and, for a dreadful, irrational moment - Morgan thought he was gone. Then, Reid's lips started moving, as he formed words that were almost too soft to hear. “Fifty-three. Fifty-nine. Sixty-one.”
“That's it. Stay with me, kid,” Morgan whispered. “You're doing great. Go on.”
“Sixty-seven. Seventy-one. Seventy-three. Seventy-nine...” Morgan held his breath as he listened to Reid's thin voice - and that's when the medics bursted into the room, and pushed him and Hotch firmly to the side, (You can let go, sir. Let go, now,) calling at each other as they lowered the stretcher and maneuvered Reid with experienced hands, guiding him to lie down -
(Eighty-three. Eighty-nine. Ninety-seven. One hundred one. One hundred three. One hundred seven)
- drowning Reid's faint voice in a chaos of information as they estimated the damage and got ready to leave. Morgan's eyes remained fixed on Reid's lips, reading the numbers as he kept counting, obediently, even as his eyes slid shut -
(One hundred nine. One hundred thirteen. One hundred twenty-seven. One hundred thirty-one. One hundred thirty-seven...)
- until the medics wheeled him out of the room, followed close by a Hotch with hard eyes and bloodied hands. And Morgan was left in an unbelieving daze for one long moment, as he stood alone in a corner of the room, near a small puddle of blood smeared on the floor - a bloodied curtain crumpled by his side, and prime numbers still resounding in his head.
---
On to part two.
quiet]
Title: One time too many [part 1]
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Agent down! from criminal_prompt
Summary: Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised. [...] And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday - he would do it one time too many.
Note: some clichés are just begging to be written. I know. :)
Spencer Reid was, notoriously, a genius.
He had an IQ of 187, supposedly higher than Einstein's, and graduated from high school when he was twelwe. He could decipher riddles with an almost annoying lack of effort, and thwart or conceive the most complex, subtle of plans. He could read twenty thousand words per minute, and remember word by word of pretty much anything he'd read with that photographic memory of his.
("It's called eidetic, Morgan."
"That's what I said, kid.")
Morgan could still remember one night they'd spent on the jet - flying back home. He sat fiddling with his watch, bored after his Ipod had run out of battery, too worked up to sleep - and he'd met Reid's gentle smile across the half-darkness. He'd gone to sit with him, and something in his eyes must have given him away - Reid had curled up in a corner of the sofa, and had recited him the first few chapters of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. His voice was low and soothing, and Morgan had found himself smiling and quietly drifting off about the time Billy Pilgrim stood in his garden, waiting for the Trafalmadorians' flying saucer to come.
(Reid had never mentioned it afterwards, but, for a few days - his smile had seemed, if possible, even warmer than usual.)
Reid was lecturing students that were often older than he was - maybe that was why he always ended up complaining they didn't get his jokes. He wrote brilliant papers on every subject that struck his fancy, and was currently working on his umpteenth degree in some overly-intellectual subject.
(It was his third, and it was in philosophy. Also, Reid was currently vehemently arguing with Plato on the allegorical significance of some cave myth. Not that Morgan would ever admit he knew all this - or that he would, from time to time, ask Garcia to hack into the university database to check on Reid's progression. Just to make sure the kid had enough time to study, that was.)
So, yes: all considered, Morgan had to concede that the kid was, indeed, a genius.
And yet, sometimes - Spencer Reid was an idiot.
---
"Donald, put the gun down. Please," Reid's voice chided, gentle. "I promise no one will harm you."
Morgan could hear ragged breathing in the background, as a sizzling silence stretched for the following seconds. He pressed his earpiece as deep as it would go, trying to block every other sound as he swiftly moved along the corridor, heading for the hotel room where Hotch and Reid had the Unsub cornered.
"This place is a fucking labyrinth," muttered one of the SWAT guys following him - and Morgan almost snarled in his face, growling "Shut up!," as he heard an unknown, shaky voice speak, a little muffled by the distance.
"I can't. I have to - I need..."
The following words were drowned by a static. Morgan barely refrained from swearing aloud.
"Donald - you don't want to do this," Reid said, soothing. "I know that you feel like there is no other option - like you will never feel better again. But I swear to God, if you put the gun down - I'll help you. We'll find the help you need. You have to believe - that you can make it."
The static crackled. "No one can help me," the Unsub whimpered. He sounded very young, very scared, and most likely under the effects of a drug of sort. Straining, Morgan could hear a faint click - like someone unlocking the safety of a gun. He felt something that was cold and sharp run down his back, like an icy worm crawling its way under his skin.
"You don't wanna die, Donald," Reid almost pleaded. And Morgan - Morgan suddenly remembered.
---
"He's sending out mixed messages. It's weird," had commented Reid, staring at the billboard and chewing lightly on his bottom lip. "If we profile the notes he left on the crime scenes and his private emails, what we get is the portrait of an individual with overwhelming suicidal tendencies, not a killer."
"Considering the level of obsession he shows in his writing, if he was really suicidal, he would have killed himself a long time ago," Morgan had replied, skimming through the papers scattered on the table. "This doesn't make any sense."
Reid's eyes had narrowed. "It's almost as if - on some level, he wants to die, but he is too afraid to actually kill himself."
"So maybe that's why he's targeting males with a body structure that's definitely stronger than the average," Morgan had said. "Maybe he's hoping one of them will fight back and kill him. A sort of indirect, passive-aggressive suicide."
"Maybe," had said Reid, slow, without tearing his eyes from the board. He had frowned. "Maybe, he wants someone to stop him."
---
Morgan felt his knees go weak as was hit by the realization, hard and sudden like a punch in the guts - and it was at once clear that he wasn't the only one to have made the connection.
"He's gonna make us shoot him," exclaimed Hotch, and his words resounded into Morgan's earpiece like a death sentence. Burning sweat broke out on his forehead, his back, as he heard Rossi yelling something in the distance -
"Reid, get out of there!" he shouted, causing the SWAT guys to jump in surprise. No answer.
"Donald. You don't have to," said Reid's voice, gentle.
"I have no choice," the Unsub replied, almost apologetic. And then -
("Oh God," whispered Prentiss, somewhere in the building,)
- Morgan could hear a gunshot, hitting his ear-drum like a blow - and right after, chaos exploded in his earpiece, deafening him with yells and shots and loud thumps. Morgan tried to swallow.
He could not hear Reid's voice.
---
An utter, complete idiot.
Like, for example, that time he tried to talk down a crazed delusional boy who was holding a rifle almost as big as a goddamn machine gun - and he actually succeeded, for God's sake. Or the time he thrusted his gun into Morgan's hands and walked to face a man loaded with explosives, armed with nothing but his speech. Or when he went to stand between the team and an armed killer, without even wearing a damn vest, trying to prevent them from shooting...
"You'll have to accept the fact," Morgan had said, always the big brother, so wise and experienced, so stuck up his own ass - God, how he wanted to kick himself when he thought about it - "That we can't save everyone." Reid had nodded, then, had said he understood, but Morgan, deep down, knew - Reid may have acknowledged it, but that didn't mean he'd started believing it just yet.
Morgan could, on some level, understand. The feeling of being expendable, maybe - of having to demonstrate he could actually help, he could make a difference. Somehow, maybe Reid was still trying to prove that he was worthy of the position he held, that his brain could be an asset out in the field as well.
Or, maybe, Reid simply didn't want to see people die. And Morgan could understand that, too - but, honestly, he was freaking tired of risking a heart attack every time. Over the years, he'd learned that, if you couldn't save everyone, you had to get your priorities straight. And, if the choice was between Reid and the psycho of the moment - it was simply a no-brainer.
Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised, relying only in his voice and brain - because, deep down, he still wanted to believe that reasoning and talking should always be enough.
And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday - he would do it one time too many.
---
Morgan was hurrying through the corridors when the shots died out, and the noises calmed down enough to let him hear Hotch, calling - "Clear!" And then, louder - the closest to yelling he'd ever heard him - "Agent down! Send up the medics - I got an agent down!"
"Hotch!" He barked, as he nearly rammed in the wall a policeman who hadn't moved promptly enough out of his way. "Status! What the hell happened there?"
There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the line. "Morgan," Hotch said finally, his voice calm and strained. "Get over here." He paused for an instant before he added, almost under his breath - "Make it fast."
And Morgan ran. He got to goddamn room 207 with his head throbbing and his lungs on fire, striding past the SWAT guys that cluttered the doorway. He quickly surveyed the room, panting, and spared a quick glance to a body, strewn across the floor, which was clearly the Unsub and which was also rather clearly dead. You got what you wanted, at last, you son of a bitch, he thought vaguely, and then - then, he saw Reid.
He was slumped against the wall, half-seated, one of his long legs bent. He was trying fruitlessly to hold himself up with one arm - Morgan could see the way his hand kept slipping on the tiled floor, his elbow threatening to give way. Hotch was crouching beside him, holding him by the shoulders, preventing him from falling sideways.
"Sorry," he heard Reid say, his voice thin. "Hotch - I thought I could..."
He stopped, blinking slowly, and leaned his head back against the wall. Hotch gripped his shoulders harder. "It's alright. Now, you just keep looking at me. You - Morgan, get over here, now."
Morgan had to fight not to throw himself at Reid's side, forcing himself to kneel slowly. (Stay calm. Just - remain calm.) He swallowed as he scanned Reid's body, trying to assess the damage - trying desperately to detach his mind from the fact that it was Reid, damn it. Reid, who was pressing one hand against his stomach - Morgan hissed as he saw dark blood, trickling through his fingers. It had already soaked part of his cardigan and was now dripping slowly on the floor, starting to pool at Reid's side.
“What happened?” Morgan asked, stupidly, and couldn't quite prevent his voice from sounding strangled.
Hotch looked at him briefly. “The Unsub had time to shoot before we brought him down,” he said, his jaw set, hard. “Hold him. I'll get something to try and slow the bleeding. Keep him talking.”
Morgan brought his hands to Reid's shoulders, steadying him as Hotch slowly released his grip and moved away. Reid opened his eyes, and his gaze seemed to take longer than usual to focus on Morgan's face - he swallowed, then let out a soft moan. Morgan felt like someone had smacked him right across the face.
“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice husky. His brain felt goddamn puffy, and was just refusing to think straight. “Looks like you got yourself in another mess. I'm getting tired of this habit of yours, you know.”
Reid's lips twitched in the smallest, pained grin. “Know. 'M sorry,” he mumbled. “Thought I could - help him.”
“It's alright, kid. You did good.” Morgan shifted closer, adjusting his grip on Reid's arms. He stared straight into Reid's eyes, trying to force a smile out. “You do something like this again, though, I'm smacking you.”
Reid actually snorted a half-attemp to a laugh. “I'm counting - on it,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, wetting his lips, as his chest heaved. “Reid,” Morgan called - as Hotch crouched back down with a small curtain he'd all but ripped off its rings. He pressed it against Reid's abdomen, causing him to hiss in pain, with a sharp breath. When Reid looked back at Morgan, his eyes seemed clouded.
“Reid,” Morgan called, fighting the urge to shake him. “Kid, listen to me. You gotta stay awake. Reid - ” Reid's head was slowly lolling forward, as he struggled to remain conscious. Morgan brought one hand to brush Reid's hair away from his face, then cupped his cheek, helping him remain upright. He felt Reid lean heavily against his touch, his eyes half-closed, his lips almost gray. His skin felt cold.
“Reid. Come on, stay with me, man,” Morgan said, as he tried frantically to think of something which would help. A sudden, crazy inspiration sparkled in his mind - God, maybe he'd gone insane. Or maybe he was starting to get the hang of this genius thing. “Reid. Reid,” he called, raising his voice to get his attention. “Prime numbers. Count for me. Can you do it?”
He saw Reid swallow, his lips moving silently as he tried to speak. He wet his lips, then seemed to focus once again on Morgan's eyes. “Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven...” he started, slow. His voice was barely audible, but steady. “Thirteen. Seventeen - nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one.”
“That's it. Talk to me, kid,” Morgan urged. He could feel commotion somewhere outside the room, and he prayed fervently that the medics were there at goddamn last.
“Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven - ” Reid whispered. He had to pause, struggling for breath, and leaned further against Morgan's hand. Their gazes met, and they stared into each other's eyes for a few, endless seconds, as Reid breathed hard, fighting to remain awake - Reid's eyes burning with effort, Morgan's wide in incredulous fear.
“M'rgan,'” Reid managed to get out, between gritted teeth. “'m sorry. So s'rry.” And then, as a gleamy stain of blood appeared on the inside of his pale lips, he breathed - “F'rgive me.”
Morgan's chest tightened so hard he thought he would bloody choke. “It's alright. Kid - Reid, it's alright,” he said, stroking his thumb over Reid's cheekbone, trying to keep his voice even. “You're gonna be fine. Just - stay with me. Keep talking, kid.”
Reid closed his eyes and, for a dreadful, irrational moment - Morgan thought he was gone. Then, Reid's lips started moving, as he formed words that were almost too soft to hear. “Fifty-three. Fifty-nine. Sixty-one.”
“That's it. Stay with me, kid,” Morgan whispered. “You're doing great. Go on.”
“Sixty-seven. Seventy-one. Seventy-three. Seventy-nine...” Morgan held his breath as he listened to Reid's thin voice - and that's when the medics bursted into the room, and pushed him and Hotch firmly to the side, (You can let go, sir. Let go, now,) calling at each other as they lowered the stretcher and maneuvered Reid with experienced hands, guiding him to lie down -
(Eighty-three. Eighty-nine. Ninety-seven. One hundred one. One hundred three. One hundred seven)
- drowning Reid's faint voice in a chaos of information as they estimated the damage and got ready to leave. Morgan's eyes remained fixed on Reid's lips, reading the numbers as he kept counting, obediently, even as his eyes slid shut -
(One hundred nine. One hundred thirteen. One hundred twenty-seven. One hundred thirty-one. One hundred thirty-seven...)
- until the medics wheeled him out of the room, followed close by a Hotch with hard eyes and bloodied hands. And Morgan was left in an unbelieving daze for one long moment, as he stood alone in a corner of the room, near a small puddle of blood smeared on the floor - a bloodied curtain crumpled by his side, and prime numbers still resounding in his head.
---
On to part two.