(no subject)
Title It Tastes Like Grief
Main Pairings: Morgan/Reid (pre-slash, but could be never)
Characters: Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid
Rating: pg-13
Word count: 1137
Warnings/Spoilers: suicide ideation, mentions of drug use (Zugzwang spoilers
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Summary: Morgan goes to Reid while he mourns
Author’s Note: I love feedback, thanks!
I take liberties with the canon. I can't help it
Morgan’s phone rings and skitters on the granite counter-top.
“Hello?”
“Come over,” it takes Morgan a minute to recognize the voice; it’s wrecked by emotion. He hears Reid breathe a few ragged breaths before he says, “Please?”
“Reid,” he whispers desperately.
“Just come over.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
Morgan grabs his keys and heads for the door. He backtracks, goes into his landlord safe, and withdraws the keys with the chess piece keychain.
When Reid had his anthrax scare, Morgan had been flipping a Victorian row-house. After the flip was over, he had trouble selling it. It was like he’d put his heart and soul into it; everything he had felt, all the love and despair he’d had, and sleepless nights had gone into the dilapidated home. He couldn’t sell it and when Reid needed a place after his lease ran out…well it seemed like the perfect choice. Especially since Morgan turned the bright 3rd small-enough-to-be-a-closet bedroom into a library. It might have been for someone in particular; it had been a project his contractor had frowned upon. Reid loved the place, and Morgan took comfort in that.
He drives a little fast, and he may cut off everyone and their mother to get that half foot closer to Reid. Halfway there, Morgan feels guilty for bringing along the landlord keys, but he slips them into his pocket anyways. He promises himself he won’t use them, except for an emergency. When he parks in from of the row house, he calls Reid to let him know he’s there.
“Just come in,” Morgan makes to protest, when Reid continues, “I know you brought your keys.”
He unlocks the door a little guiltily and walks in the front door. He drops his keys on the entryway table when he sees Reid. Reid’s long legs are folded under him like a pretzel at the living room coffee table; there’s a vial, needle, and belt sitting on the table in front of him.
“Reid?”
“It’s a lethal dose.”
Morgan presses his lips tightly together and he blinks his eyes slowly, crying is not going to do anything for Reid.
“I assumed my last thoughts were going to be about her and most of them were, but…”
“Reid?”
“But then I thought of you. I knew you’d be the one that would come looking for me, and I couldn’t do that to you. Not after Gideon.”
“Thank you,” he feels stupid saying it, in light of what Reid is saying, but it is one of the most sincere things he’s ever said.
“I thought seeing you would make it stop; I thought I would want to live, but I don’t, not really.”
“Tell me what I can do.”
“I don’t know.”
Morgan sits behind Reid on the couch; they listen to each other breathe, or rather shudder.
“How did you let me go?”
“What?”
“When you knew I wanted to be with Maeve, how did you let me go and still want to live?” It’s a hurtful question he knows, but he needs the answer. He craves the answer.
“That was different, Reid.”
“How?”
“I knew you were going to be happy, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. We were still going to be friends, and I could still love you in this world. It’s not the same, kid, not even close.”
“Will you flush it?”
“Of course.”
Morgan picks up the vial, shuffles out of the room, opens it, and pours the contents into the toilet. He flushes it with a relieved sigh and closes his eyes. He scrubs his hand over his face, splashes cool water on his face, and almost gives himself a pep talk in the mirror.
When he returns to the living room, Reid is spinning the needle on the table. Morgan picks it up and cracks the barrel.
“I think flushing the dilaudid was enough,” Reid comments.
“I know you could give yourself an embolism.”
Reid’s lips curve up in wry smile because he knows that too, and he won’t lie that’s what he was contemplating when Derek reentered the room.
“Will it ever stop?”
“I don’t know, pretty boy, you know it as well as I do that it is different from everyone; I thought you were getting better.”
“There’s a reason the Kubler-Ross model commonly places denial before depression.”
Morgan doesn’t respond; he just sits quietly on the couch. His foot grazes Reid’s quad; Reid places a hand on Morgan’s boot.
“I’m getting tired,” Reid says suddenly, “Will you…will you?”
“I’ll stay right here, pretty boy, point me to the linen closet and I’ll make myself at home right here on the couch,” he says emphatically, patting the worn leather.
“Will you sleep with me?”
“I…I…”
“I need to feel somebody.”
“Anything you need.”
Morgan goes to his SUV and grabs his go-bag. While he doesn’t typically wear pajamas, he does have his workout gear. He slips into the basketball shorts and tank that are rolled at the bottom of his bag. He splashes water on his face, again. When he gets to Reid’s bedroom, Reid is already curled up in the fetal position on the left side of the bed. Morgan lies next to him like a log. He closes his eyes and concentrates on steadying everything that’s rushing through him. He feels Reid’s tentative fingers grab his and rest them on Reid’s ribs. Morgan could count them if he wanted to, but he doesn’t he just exists with his fingers grazing over Reid’s flannel top.
Morgan falls asleep after a long while and the repetitiveness of his fingers skimming the younger man’s body soothes something inside of him. It’s late when he’s pulled out of his hectic dreams; Reid’s fingers are trailing over his navel playing with the band of his shorts.
“Reid,” he reprimands groggily, “You don’t want this.”
“I do, I really do,” Reid returns, his fingers dipping under the band he’s only played at before. Morgan shivers.
“I don’t want this,” Morgan whispers and gently pushes Reid’s hand away.
“Derek.”
“I’m going to go sleep on the couch.”
Reid flops over and Morgan can hear his wrangled sob.
Morgan can’t sleep so he watches a Super Bowl on ESPN Classic. The commentators drawling voice lolls him into a desperate sleep. He wakes early, looks around the barren kitchen, and makes a trip the grocers.
Reid is sitting at the counter when he gets back; he’s sipping on the coffee Morgan brewed before he left. His eyes are red-rimmed and expression remorseful.
“I’m sorry, fuck, Morgan, I’ve never been more sorry in my life.”
“It’s fine, Reid,” Morgan assures as he empties bags of essentials.
“It’s not; that was awful. You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You do.”
Main Pairings: Morgan/Reid (pre-slash, but could be never)
Characters: Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid
Rating: pg-13
Word count: 1137
Warnings/Spoilers: suicide ideation, mentions of drug use (Zugzwang spoilers
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Summary: Morgan goes to Reid while he mourns
Author’s Note: I love feedback, thanks!
I take liberties with the canon. I can't help it
Morgan’s phone rings and skitters on the granite counter-top.
“Hello?”
“Come over,” it takes Morgan a minute to recognize the voice; it’s wrecked by emotion. He hears Reid breathe a few ragged breaths before he says, “Please?”
“Reid,” he whispers desperately.
“Just come over.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
Morgan grabs his keys and heads for the door. He backtracks, goes into his landlord safe, and withdraws the keys with the chess piece keychain.
When Reid had his anthrax scare, Morgan had been flipping a Victorian row-house. After the flip was over, he had trouble selling it. It was like he’d put his heart and soul into it; everything he had felt, all the love and despair he’d had, and sleepless nights had gone into the dilapidated home. He couldn’t sell it and when Reid needed a place after his lease ran out…well it seemed like the perfect choice. Especially since Morgan turned the bright 3rd small-enough-to-be-a-closet bedroom into a library. It might have been for someone in particular; it had been a project his contractor had frowned upon. Reid loved the place, and Morgan took comfort in that.
He drives a little fast, and he may cut off everyone and their mother to get that half foot closer to Reid. Halfway there, Morgan feels guilty for bringing along the landlord keys, but he slips them into his pocket anyways. He promises himself he won’t use them, except for an emergency. When he parks in from of the row house, he calls Reid to let him know he’s there.
“Just come in,” Morgan makes to protest, when Reid continues, “I know you brought your keys.”
He unlocks the door a little guiltily and walks in the front door. He drops his keys on the entryway table when he sees Reid. Reid’s long legs are folded under him like a pretzel at the living room coffee table; there’s a vial, needle, and belt sitting on the table in front of him.
“Reid?”
“It’s a lethal dose.”
Morgan presses his lips tightly together and he blinks his eyes slowly, crying is not going to do anything for Reid.
“I assumed my last thoughts were going to be about her and most of them were, but…”
“Reid?”
“But then I thought of you. I knew you’d be the one that would come looking for me, and I couldn’t do that to you. Not after Gideon.”
“Thank you,” he feels stupid saying it, in light of what Reid is saying, but it is one of the most sincere things he’s ever said.
“I thought seeing you would make it stop; I thought I would want to live, but I don’t, not really.”
“Tell me what I can do.”
“I don’t know.”
Morgan sits behind Reid on the couch; they listen to each other breathe, or rather shudder.
“How did you let me go?”
“What?”
“When you knew I wanted to be with Maeve, how did you let me go and still want to live?” It’s a hurtful question he knows, but he needs the answer. He craves the answer.
“That was different, Reid.”
“How?”
“I knew you were going to be happy, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. We were still going to be friends, and I could still love you in this world. It’s not the same, kid, not even close.”
“Will you flush it?”
“Of course.”
Morgan picks up the vial, shuffles out of the room, opens it, and pours the contents into the toilet. He flushes it with a relieved sigh and closes his eyes. He scrubs his hand over his face, splashes cool water on his face, and almost gives himself a pep talk in the mirror.
When he returns to the living room, Reid is spinning the needle on the table. Morgan picks it up and cracks the barrel.
“I think flushing the dilaudid was enough,” Reid comments.
“I know you could give yourself an embolism.”
Reid’s lips curve up in wry smile because he knows that too, and he won’t lie that’s what he was contemplating when Derek reentered the room.
“Will it ever stop?”
“I don’t know, pretty boy, you know it as well as I do that it is different from everyone; I thought you were getting better.”
“There’s a reason the Kubler-Ross model commonly places denial before depression.”
Morgan doesn’t respond; he just sits quietly on the couch. His foot grazes Reid’s quad; Reid places a hand on Morgan’s boot.
“I’m getting tired,” Reid says suddenly, “Will you…will you?”
“I’ll stay right here, pretty boy, point me to the linen closet and I’ll make myself at home right here on the couch,” he says emphatically, patting the worn leather.
“Will you sleep with me?”
“I…I…”
“I need to feel somebody.”
“Anything you need.”
Morgan goes to his SUV and grabs his go-bag. While he doesn’t typically wear pajamas, he does have his workout gear. He slips into the basketball shorts and tank that are rolled at the bottom of his bag. He splashes water on his face, again. When he gets to Reid’s bedroom, Reid is already curled up in the fetal position on the left side of the bed. Morgan lies next to him like a log. He closes his eyes and concentrates on steadying everything that’s rushing through him. He feels Reid’s tentative fingers grab his and rest them on Reid’s ribs. Morgan could count them if he wanted to, but he doesn’t he just exists with his fingers grazing over Reid’s flannel top.
Morgan falls asleep after a long while and the repetitiveness of his fingers skimming the younger man’s body soothes something inside of him. It’s late when he’s pulled out of his hectic dreams; Reid’s fingers are trailing over his navel playing with the band of his shorts.
“Reid,” he reprimands groggily, “You don’t want this.”
“I do, I really do,” Reid returns, his fingers dipping under the band he’s only played at before. Morgan shivers.
“I don’t want this,” Morgan whispers and gently pushes Reid’s hand away.
“Derek.”
“I’m going to go sleep on the couch.”
Reid flops over and Morgan can hear his wrangled sob.
Morgan can’t sleep so he watches a Super Bowl on ESPN Classic. The commentators drawling voice lolls him into a desperate sleep. He wakes early, looks around the barren kitchen, and makes a trip the grocers.
Reid is sitting at the counter when he gets back; he’s sipping on the coffee Morgan brewed before he left. His eyes are red-rimmed and expression remorseful.
“I’m sorry, fuck, Morgan, I’ve never been more sorry in my life.”
“It’s fine, Reid,” Morgan assures as he empties bags of essentials.
“It’s not; that was awful. You have every right to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“I don’t deserve you.”
“You do.”