[fic]: One time too many - part 2 [Morgan/Reid] [pg-13]
[mood| 
busy]
Title: One time too many [part 2]
Author: Lago Lindari
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: At last, here it is. I don't know how to apologize for keeping everyone waiting for so long. I assure you you will not have to wait another nine months for the third and last installment ♥.
Part one: ( And yet, sometimes - Spencer Reid was an idiot.)
Part two:
They had only been interrogating the hotel guests. Through the murky mist clouding his brain, Reid found himself considering that he must stop going around knocking on doors. In the long run, it was proving to be more dangerous than actually taking part in a shooting. Yes - doors were the real hazard in their line of work. They could hide psychopaths with double personality disorders, psychopaths loaded with explosive, gun-wielding psychopaths, and of course the occasional mass destruction bacteriological weapon. It was the doors. Doors were bad.
They’d only been interrogating the hotel guests, when Donald had started screaming on the other side of the locked door. Hotch had broken it down when the Unsub had refused to open - and they’d found a vaguely depressing room, with flowery curtains and a frightened teenager holding a gun to his own chin. Shouting that he knew what they were after, he knew that they would come. He just knew.
The talking part had seemed to be going well enough. At least, until Donald had decided to point the gun at them, instead. From that point onwards - his whole demeanour had changed. He’d seemed, somehow - his back straighter, his shoulders no longer hunched, his breath getting deeper, easier - he’d almost seemed - relieved. Dozens of book pages fluttered all over Reid’s brain, researches, diagrams, as he tried to decipher the reason - identify posture patterns, compare with textbook cases, scan for revealing details. Relieved because someone had come to stop him; relieved because he wouldn’t have to kill again - relieved from a burden he could no longer bear to carry - relieved from responsibility -
And, right about then - Reid had remembered.
(Blue suicide: a suicide method in which a suicidal individual deliberately acts in a threatening way, in order to provoke a lethal response from a law enforcement officer, such as being shot to death.)
He should have guessed earlier that this would be the Unsub’s goal - he should have deducted it, predicted this outcome. Perhaps, he could have. Or, perhaps - he’d have to realize that, sometimes, not even him could extricate the tortuous twists people’s minds could take. And, when he 'd seen the gun aimed at his chest - he should have warned Hotch, the others - should have commanded them to shoot. Hotch would have, in a blink, no second guessing - everyone on the team had made trusting Reid part of their survival instinct a long time ago. He vaguely thought that he was letting them down, hiding information - they all would have been in danger if the Unsub decided to start shooting. He should have told them, because he knew -
(Some suspects with the desire to die will actually fire live ammunition and even kill people, which would reasonably provoke an officer to fire on them in defense.)
Doctor Spencer Reid may not look the part, but he’d proven time and time again that he was no coward. And doctor Spencer Reid did not like to see people die. So, he’d taken a step forward, instead, drawing Donald’s attention onto himself - trusting that Hotchner would fire before Donald had the time to take a second shot.
Some people would consider it heroic. Others, would just consider him an idiot.
---
The light was bright, pulsing - blinding whiteness, on the verge of painful, making his eyes water. He blinked - shapes moving above him, vague voices crisscrossing around his head. He could not remember falling asleep. He tried to raise his head, fighting back a wave of nausea - an unusual pressure, air being forced into his mouth, down his throat - sick sweet plastic taste.
(“Doctor Reid, open your eyes, please. Can you follow the light?” )
He remembered numbers - one hundred eighty-one, one hundred ninety-one, one hundred ninety-three - he could remember Morgan’s voice, somewhere beyond the mist, asking him to count. Reid didn’t think it really made much sense. He could not remember when he’d stopped counting. Fingers prodded him, a heavy weight on his chest, as of someone pressing down hard on his ribcage. And his lungs just too heavy, like wet sponges, refusing to expand, to breathe for him - that he could remember. Familiar, frightening echo - he tried to push himself upright and God, the sudden, howling pain, gripping his abdomen, pinning him back down -
(“Doctor Reid, you’re going to feel a small sting. It will help with the pain.” )
And there were hands, clawing out of thin air, grabbing at him, clasping his wrists, holding his arm out. “No,” he said, he tried to say, his mouth trapped by plastic - he tried to lift himself, to move, to get them off him, his muscles all too limp and pliant under those hands - and they were holding him down, down, and that he did remember just too well -
(“Doctor Reid, please don’t move. Hold him, people. Is he seizing? Hold him!” )
- and then it was flooding through his veins, crawling up along his arm and spreading all over and inside him, aiming for his brain - no more room for numbers, merely the dreadful, blissful recognition - no more room for - (Morgan) -
Until it reached his head, and just swept him under.
---
Some people would consider Derek Morgan an idiot, too.
Perhaps because he seemed to always take a step too far than what it would be safe; perhaps because of his habit of plunging headlong into borderline suicidal chases after the Unsub of the moment. Some people would focus on the way he blew off beauty after beauty, rejecting gorgeous women who would be more than willing to start relationships with him. Sometimes, when feeling particularly honest with himself, Morgan would even consider agreeing with those people - maybe, only maybe, he did sometimes behave with a certain degree of idiocy. Maybe.
Other times, such as right about now - Derek Morgan knew he was an idiot.
Right about now, as he strode past the E.R. doors, trying to wipe off his retina the shape of a crumpled curtain, patterned with little roses and soaked with blood - Morgan was scrolling trough the list of all the many, many reasons why he was undoubtedly an idiot. Including several things he had missed, he had done or worse - he hadn’t done, he hadn’t said.
Morgan narrowly avoided knocking down one of the nurses as he tried to find his way to the main desk. He wasn’t even sure if he’d parked anywhere legal - hell, it had been some sort of miracle that he’d managed to drive all the way to the hospital without causing an accident. He wouldn’t complain for a ticket.
He had not ridden in the ambulance, the way Hotch had most likely done. He just - he’d been - too slow. It had taken him just a little to long to tear his eyes away from the small curtain, crumpled on the linoleum floor, darkened with Reid’s blood. It had taken him a moment too long to force himself to walk past the crimson stain on the wall, slowly trickling down the ripped wallpaper. It had been - he had just needed - a minute. To get his brain started again. Where adrenaline usually kicked in, driving him forward, spurring him into action - this time, there had only been void. Thick, greyish cotton, filling his head like dusty molasses, slowing him down, too much.
He’d only been a little slower than usual. He was - afraid - that he’d been too slow.
He barely had the presence of mind to shrug off his bulletproof vest before reaching the counter. He folded it on his arm, hiding the FBI sign from sight, not even sure of why he bothered at all. It didn’t matter. Not many things seemed to matter right now - nothing, perhaps, except the ghastly memory of grey lips parted in shallow breaths. Those breaths sifted through his brain like tiny jewels, small and glistening and so much more precious than anything he’d ever dreaded of losing.
When he lay his hands on the counter, they were shaking, just lightly.
“Excuse me,” he said. Had he stopped to consider it, he would have been surprised to find his voice steady. The nurse was in front of him withing seconds, a gentle, tired smile on her face.
“Yes. How can I help?”
Morgan cleared his throat. “I’m looking - a patient should have come in just now. An FBI agent. Gunshot,” he said. Somehow, he could not bring himself to say Reid’s name. The woman reached to grab a list, scanning it quickly.
“Yes. Gunshot wound to the abdomen - came in some fifteen minutes ago. They took him straight to the OR.”
“Do you know - I mean,” Morgan’s head resounded like an empty cathedral. Fog too thick to see through. “Was he - is he still...”
“Morgan.” He turned sharply to find a disheveled, pale looking Hotch standing behind him, his back straight and his face the usual mask of carefully contained, blasted nothing.
“I’ve got this covered. Thank you, madam,” Hotch curtly told the nurse, his hand a gentle pressure on Morgan’s arm as he steered him away and towards an empty, cramped waiting room. He stood, his arms loosely crossed on his chest, as Morgan all but let himself fall on one of the chairs. He hadn’t noticed how weak his legs were.
He raised his gaze, trying hard to keep the bitter edge of supplication out of his voice. “Is he alive?” he whispered, words damn near scorching his mouth.
Hotch’s lips were tight. “I don’t know,” he said, simply. His face was plain: Morgan, for a wild moment, wanted to smack him. “He’s in surgery at the moment, and I haven’t received an update yet.”
Morgan swallowed, fighting not to cross his arms over his chest. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Yes, but -” he almost chocked on the words. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. “They’re still operating. So he’s - he’s still alive, right?”
Hotch’s expression did not soften. “Morgan, I don’t know.”
Morgan swallowed again - he leaned back, his eyes sweeping across the hallway, in search of something he didn’t know and couldn’t find. Hotch had barely taken off his Kevlar - Morgan could see it laying abandoned on the next seat. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his shirt was rumpled - he’d ridden in the ambulance, of course. Hotch would never leave a man down. He wouldn’t.
Morgan bent his head, one hand coming up to rub at his strained neck, trying to calm his heart rate down. He wouldn’t leave a man down, either. He’d proven it. He’d just - he’d just been a little too slow, this time. This time. Nevermind when he’d realised how he’d willingly blinded himself when - during those darker times when Reid would have needed help the most - nevermind that he, just like the others, had chosen not to see. Everyone, except Hotch. He’d been the one to stand by Reid’s side - not to let their man down.
Morgan felt nauseous.
He blinked. He needed to breathe. He needed to calm down. He lowered his gaze, seeking something stable his thought would be able to cling to, to regain balance -
And that’s when he saw it. Right at the hem of Hotch’s sleeve - a tiny, dried up stain of blood - a dark, careless splatter, right on his wrist, beside the button. Reid’s blood, in a sharp contrast with the pale azure of the shirt - it captured his eyes, and Morgan - Morgan found himself unable to look away.
In some remote corner of his mind, he thought he heard Hotchner talk to him. He mumbled half an answer, half an apology, not fully aware of what he was saying - he knew that he was staring, but - he couldn’t help it. The stain was a little bigger than a dime, shaped like Texas, he thought. And the blood - it didn’t look the same as the blood on the curtain. That blood had been gleaming, a deep, pulsating red - as if it still retained some of its precious oxygen, and had only been waiting to resume his duty to keep Reid’s body alive. While this - this blood was dry, opaque - a dark maroon, lifeless, encrusted on the fabric like a -
“Morgan,” Hotch repeated - and Morgan snapped out of it, barely preventing himself from jerking backwards.
“Yes,” he said, right away. “I... I mean. What?” he paused, reluctantly meeting Hotchner’s eyes. He did not lower his gaze - Derek Morgan did not shy from eye contact. Hotch’s features seemed to have softened, even if just a fraction. He remained silent.
“I... need a minute,” Morgan said and stood up, his balance unstable, backing away - his hands raising instinctively, as if to keep Hotch at a distance. He turned, stumbling to the door - he staggered through the corridor, not even sure how he was keeping upright - he couldn’t feel his legs properly. He bumped into someone, and it was only automatic to mutter an apology, before he made his way to the men’s restroom.
He stumbled inside, breath suddenly almost too hard to catch. He grasped the sink, his legs suddenly unstable, an unreliable jelly - strawberry Jello, Reid’s favorite flavor, oh, God - he nearly lost his grip and it was not enough. He walked into one of the cubicles and, instead of slamming the door as he intended to, he found himself closing it softly, his hands numb. It was only when he lowered the plastic lid and sat down that he realized his knees were this close to giving up on him. His hands were plain shaking now; he rubbed at his head, resting his elbows on his legs, covered his face as he struggled to regain control.
Derek Morgan may have been an idiot, but he was not a coward - so, he would get out soon, and walk back, and stand like a man with Hotch as he waited. He would get up and unlatch the door, in another minute. Just a minute.
It was not the first time: he should have been used to it all, the anguish, the annihilating, silent terror, the harsh dryness in his mouth. He wondered if it was at all possible to get used to it; it never happened. Again, a sickening chill crawled down his back, spreading in his limbs, a grey weight sinking in his stomach. God, it never changed, and yet it was somewhat worse each time. Each time, after he swore he’d learnt the lesson, he would not make the same mistake again; but there were new mistakes. Countless errors, hoards of miscalculations and minute faux passes to be made. He wondered if it made sense, any sense at all, to feel all that guilt.
Morgan lowered his head, murmuring the name of a God he didn’t trust, and wished he could remember how to pray.
He did not know how much time had passed - it must have been a while, minutes slipping quietly into hours, unbeknowst to his shattered thoughts - when he heard the main door creak open, and steady footsteps approach.
“Morgan?” apart from the hint of question, Hotch’s voice was utterly neutral. Morgan wondered how the hell he did that.
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice rough. He felt vaguely stupid, hiding in a toilet, behind a scraped pale green door, and could not bring himself to care.
“Get out,” Hotch said. “Reid’s surgery is over.”
To be continued...
.
busy]
Title: One time too many [part 2]
Author: Lago Lindari
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: At last, here it is. I don't know how to apologize for keeping everyone waiting for so long. I assure you you will not have to wait another nine months for the third and last installment ♥.
Part one: ( And yet, sometimes - Spencer Reid was an idiot.)
Part two:
They had only been interrogating the hotel guests. Through the murky mist clouding his brain, Reid found himself considering that he must stop going around knocking on doors. In the long run, it was proving to be more dangerous than actually taking part in a shooting. Yes - doors were the real hazard in their line of work. They could hide psychopaths with double personality disorders, psychopaths loaded with explosive, gun-wielding psychopaths, and of course the occasional mass destruction bacteriological weapon. It was the doors. Doors were bad.
They’d only been interrogating the hotel guests, when Donald had started screaming on the other side of the locked door. Hotch had broken it down when the Unsub had refused to open - and they’d found a vaguely depressing room, with flowery curtains and a frightened teenager holding a gun to his own chin. Shouting that he knew what they were after, he knew that they would come. He just knew.
The talking part had seemed to be going well enough. At least, until Donald had decided to point the gun at them, instead. From that point onwards - his whole demeanour had changed. He’d seemed, somehow - his back straighter, his shoulders no longer hunched, his breath getting deeper, easier - he’d almost seemed - relieved. Dozens of book pages fluttered all over Reid’s brain, researches, diagrams, as he tried to decipher the reason - identify posture patterns, compare with textbook cases, scan for revealing details. Relieved because someone had come to stop him; relieved because he wouldn’t have to kill again - relieved from a burden he could no longer bear to carry - relieved from responsibility -
And, right about then - Reid had remembered.
(Blue suicide: a suicide method in which a suicidal individual deliberately acts in a threatening way, in order to provoke a lethal response from a law enforcement officer, such as being shot to death.)
He should have guessed earlier that this would be the Unsub’s goal - he should have deducted it, predicted this outcome. Perhaps, he could have. Or, perhaps - he’d have to realize that, sometimes, not even him could extricate the tortuous twists people’s minds could take. And, when he 'd seen the gun aimed at his chest - he should have warned Hotch, the others - should have commanded them to shoot. Hotch would have, in a blink, no second guessing - everyone on the team had made trusting Reid part of their survival instinct a long time ago. He vaguely thought that he was letting them down, hiding information - they all would have been in danger if the Unsub decided to start shooting. He should have told them, because he knew -
(Some suspects with the desire to die will actually fire live ammunition and even kill people, which would reasonably provoke an officer to fire on them in defense.)
Doctor Spencer Reid may not look the part, but he’d proven time and time again that he was no coward. And doctor Spencer Reid did not like to see people die. So, he’d taken a step forward, instead, drawing Donald’s attention onto himself - trusting that Hotchner would fire before Donald had the time to take a second shot.
Some people would consider it heroic. Others, would just consider him an idiot.
---
The light was bright, pulsing - blinding whiteness, on the verge of painful, making his eyes water. He blinked - shapes moving above him, vague voices crisscrossing around his head. He could not remember falling asleep. He tried to raise his head, fighting back a wave of nausea - an unusual pressure, air being forced into his mouth, down his throat - sick sweet plastic taste.
(“Doctor Reid, open your eyes, please. Can you follow the light?” )
He remembered numbers - one hundred eighty-one, one hundred ninety-one, one hundred ninety-three - he could remember Morgan’s voice, somewhere beyond the mist, asking him to count. Reid didn’t think it really made much sense. He could not remember when he’d stopped counting. Fingers prodded him, a heavy weight on his chest, as of someone pressing down hard on his ribcage. And his lungs just too heavy, like wet sponges, refusing to expand, to breathe for him - that he could remember. Familiar, frightening echo - he tried to push himself upright and God, the sudden, howling pain, gripping his abdomen, pinning him back down -
(“Doctor Reid, you’re going to feel a small sting. It will help with the pain.” )
And there were hands, clawing out of thin air, grabbing at him, clasping his wrists, holding his arm out. “No,” he said, he tried to say, his mouth trapped by plastic - he tried to lift himself, to move, to get them off him, his muscles all too limp and pliant under those hands - and they were holding him down, down, and that he did remember just too well -
(“Doctor Reid, please don’t move. Hold him, people. Is he seizing? Hold him!” )
- and then it was flooding through his veins, crawling up along his arm and spreading all over and inside him, aiming for his brain - no more room for numbers, merely the dreadful, blissful recognition - no more room for - (Morgan) -
Until it reached his head, and just swept him under.
---
Some people would consider Derek Morgan an idiot, too.
Perhaps because he seemed to always take a step too far than what it would be safe; perhaps because of his habit of plunging headlong into borderline suicidal chases after the Unsub of the moment. Some people would focus on the way he blew off beauty after beauty, rejecting gorgeous women who would be more than willing to start relationships with him. Sometimes, when feeling particularly honest with himself, Morgan would even consider agreeing with those people - maybe, only maybe, he did sometimes behave with a certain degree of idiocy. Maybe.
Other times, such as right about now - Derek Morgan knew he was an idiot.
Right about now, as he strode past the E.R. doors, trying to wipe off his retina the shape of a crumpled curtain, patterned with little roses and soaked with blood - Morgan was scrolling trough the list of all the many, many reasons why he was undoubtedly an idiot. Including several things he had missed, he had done or worse - he hadn’t done, he hadn’t said.
Morgan narrowly avoided knocking down one of the nurses as he tried to find his way to the main desk. He wasn’t even sure if he’d parked anywhere legal - hell, it had been some sort of miracle that he’d managed to drive all the way to the hospital without causing an accident. He wouldn’t complain for a ticket.
He had not ridden in the ambulance, the way Hotch had most likely done. He just - he’d been - too slow. It had taken him just a little to long to tear his eyes away from the small curtain, crumpled on the linoleum floor, darkened with Reid’s blood. It had taken him a moment too long to force himself to walk past the crimson stain on the wall, slowly trickling down the ripped wallpaper. It had been - he had just needed - a minute. To get his brain started again. Where adrenaline usually kicked in, driving him forward, spurring him into action - this time, there had only been void. Thick, greyish cotton, filling his head like dusty molasses, slowing him down, too much.
He’d only been a little slower than usual. He was - afraid - that he’d been too slow.
He barely had the presence of mind to shrug off his bulletproof vest before reaching the counter. He folded it on his arm, hiding the FBI sign from sight, not even sure of why he bothered at all. It didn’t matter. Not many things seemed to matter right now - nothing, perhaps, except the ghastly memory of grey lips parted in shallow breaths. Those breaths sifted through his brain like tiny jewels, small and glistening and so much more precious than anything he’d ever dreaded of losing.
When he lay his hands on the counter, they were shaking, just lightly.
“Excuse me,” he said. Had he stopped to consider it, he would have been surprised to find his voice steady. The nurse was in front of him withing seconds, a gentle, tired smile on her face.
“Yes. How can I help?”
Morgan cleared his throat. “I’m looking - a patient should have come in just now. An FBI agent. Gunshot,” he said. Somehow, he could not bring himself to say Reid’s name. The woman reached to grab a list, scanning it quickly.
“Yes. Gunshot wound to the abdomen - came in some fifteen minutes ago. They took him straight to the OR.”
“Do you know - I mean,” Morgan’s head resounded like an empty cathedral. Fog too thick to see through. “Was he - is he still...”
“Morgan.” He turned sharply to find a disheveled, pale looking Hotch standing behind him, his back straight and his face the usual mask of carefully contained, blasted nothing.
“I’ve got this covered. Thank you, madam,” Hotch curtly told the nurse, his hand a gentle pressure on Morgan’s arm as he steered him away and towards an empty, cramped waiting room. He stood, his arms loosely crossed on his chest, as Morgan all but let himself fall on one of the chairs. He hadn’t noticed how weak his legs were.
He raised his gaze, trying hard to keep the bitter edge of supplication out of his voice. “Is he alive?” he whispered, words damn near scorching his mouth.
Hotch’s lips were tight. “I don’t know,” he said, simply. His face was plain: Morgan, for a wild moment, wanted to smack him. “He’s in surgery at the moment, and I haven’t received an update yet.”
Morgan swallowed, fighting not to cross his arms over his chest. He didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Yes, but -” he almost chocked on the words. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. “They’re still operating. So he’s - he’s still alive, right?”
Hotch’s expression did not soften. “Morgan, I don’t know.”
Morgan swallowed again - he leaned back, his eyes sweeping across the hallway, in search of something he didn’t know and couldn’t find. Hotch had barely taken off his Kevlar - Morgan could see it laying abandoned on the next seat. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, and his shirt was rumpled - he’d ridden in the ambulance, of course. Hotch would never leave a man down. He wouldn’t.
Morgan bent his head, one hand coming up to rub at his strained neck, trying to calm his heart rate down. He wouldn’t leave a man down, either. He’d proven it. He’d just - he’d just been a little too slow, this time. This time. Nevermind when he’d realised how he’d willingly blinded himself when - during those darker times when Reid would have needed help the most - nevermind that he, just like the others, had chosen not to see. Everyone, except Hotch. He’d been the one to stand by Reid’s side - not to let their man down.
Morgan felt nauseous.
He blinked. He needed to breathe. He needed to calm down. He lowered his gaze, seeking something stable his thought would be able to cling to, to regain balance -
And that’s when he saw it. Right at the hem of Hotch’s sleeve - a tiny, dried up stain of blood - a dark, careless splatter, right on his wrist, beside the button. Reid’s blood, in a sharp contrast with the pale azure of the shirt - it captured his eyes, and Morgan - Morgan found himself unable to look away.
In some remote corner of his mind, he thought he heard Hotchner talk to him. He mumbled half an answer, half an apology, not fully aware of what he was saying - he knew that he was staring, but - he couldn’t help it. The stain was a little bigger than a dime, shaped like Texas, he thought. And the blood - it didn’t look the same as the blood on the curtain. That blood had been gleaming, a deep, pulsating red - as if it still retained some of its precious oxygen, and had only been waiting to resume his duty to keep Reid’s body alive. While this - this blood was dry, opaque - a dark maroon, lifeless, encrusted on the fabric like a -
“Morgan,” Hotch repeated - and Morgan snapped out of it, barely preventing himself from jerking backwards.
“Yes,” he said, right away. “I... I mean. What?” he paused, reluctantly meeting Hotchner’s eyes. He did not lower his gaze - Derek Morgan did not shy from eye contact. Hotch’s features seemed to have softened, even if just a fraction. He remained silent.
“I... need a minute,” Morgan said and stood up, his balance unstable, backing away - his hands raising instinctively, as if to keep Hotch at a distance. He turned, stumbling to the door - he staggered through the corridor, not even sure how he was keeping upright - he couldn’t feel his legs properly. He bumped into someone, and it was only automatic to mutter an apology, before he made his way to the men’s restroom.
He stumbled inside, breath suddenly almost too hard to catch. He grasped the sink, his legs suddenly unstable, an unreliable jelly - strawberry Jello, Reid’s favorite flavor, oh, God - he nearly lost his grip and it was not enough. He walked into one of the cubicles and, instead of slamming the door as he intended to, he found himself closing it softly, his hands numb. It was only when he lowered the plastic lid and sat down that he realized his knees were this close to giving up on him. His hands were plain shaking now; he rubbed at his head, resting his elbows on his legs, covered his face as he struggled to regain control.
Derek Morgan may have been an idiot, but he was not a coward - so, he would get out soon, and walk back, and stand like a man with Hotch as he waited. He would get up and unlatch the door, in another minute. Just a minute.
It was not the first time: he should have been used to it all, the anguish, the annihilating, silent terror, the harsh dryness in his mouth. He wondered if it was at all possible to get used to it; it never happened. Again, a sickening chill crawled down his back, spreading in his limbs, a grey weight sinking in his stomach. God, it never changed, and yet it was somewhat worse each time. Each time, after he swore he’d learnt the lesson, he would not make the same mistake again; but there were new mistakes. Countless errors, hoards of miscalculations and minute faux passes to be made. He wondered if it made sense, any sense at all, to feel all that guilt.
Morgan lowered his head, murmuring the name of a God he didn’t trust, and wished he could remember how to pray.
He did not know how much time had passed - it must have been a while, minutes slipping quietly into hours, unbeknowst to his shattered thoughts - when he heard the main door creak open, and steady footsteps approach.
“Morgan?” apart from the hint of question, Hotch’s voice was utterly neutral. Morgan wondered how the hell he did that.
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice rough. He felt vaguely stupid, hiding in a toilet, behind a scraped pale green door, and could not bring himself to care.
“Get out,” Hotch said. “Reid’s surgery is over.”
To be continued...
.