Alien Cantos: An Orange Sky
Title: An Orange Sky
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Universe: Alien Cantos
Characters/Pairing: Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan - gen/pre-slash
Genre: Science Fiction/Suspense
Summary: It’s been eight days, but it feels like a lifetime. Slight Reid!whump.
…
Alien Cantos: An Orange Sky
Black trees against an orange sky,
Trees that the wind shook terribly,
Like a harsh spume along the road,
Quavering up like withered arms,
Writhing like streams, like twisted charms
Of hot lead flung in snow. Below
The iron ice stung like a goad,
Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,
And all the air was bitter sleet.
The Quality of Courage - Stephen Vincent Benet
.
Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others.
Robert Lois Stevenson
...
Day Eight
Derek Morgan stares at the plain, brick wall.
It’s a fairly bland cell, by any description of the word. There are two hard, unforgiving mattresses, a toilet and sink, and not a whole lot else.
Sometimes, when Reid comes back from his sessions, he brings a book, or a magazine, or even half a pack of Twizzlers. There’s someone out there that sympathizes, but Derek doesn’t know who they are, or even what their species is.
It’s the eighth day of the invasion (they don’t have anything to mark the days off on the wall, but Reid knows) and Derek Morgan hasn’t left his cell once. He’s not quite sure why they even keep him here.
Probably collateral.
After all, Reid’s more likely to cooperate with their demands if he knows that someone will get hurt if he doesn’t. It’s a testament to Reid’s strength, then, that Morgan hasn’t even so much as seen an alien in the time that he’s been here.
He’s not entirely sure what Reid has seen, only that every time the younger man returns, he’s sweaty and shaking, and he won’t say a damn thing about what they’re doing to him.
He’s not used to being this helpless. He’s used to investigating, and profiling, and tackling. It’s amazing how quickly things can fall apart. One day you’re hunting down serial killers for a living, and the next you’re abducted by fucking aliens.
It’s not an easy transition.
The rest of the team, as far as he knows, could be anywhere. They could be in the cell two doors down. They could be a thousand miles away. Morgan knows as much about their fate as he does about the history of buffalo.
Not a damn thing.
Footsteps start to echo down the hall, and Morgan straightens. It’s too early for Reid - usually they keep him out of the cell until late afternoon, at least. His stomach tells him that it’s around lunchtime, but that’s becoming more and more of a human construct, of late. The cell is like some kind of semi-sensory deprivation experience, and he uses his own measure of time to make things a little more bearable.
Food comes when it comes.
The guard (who isn’t really a guard at all, but another prisoner) is short and stocky, wearing overalls that look like they haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine since the turn of the century. He has a tray in his hand; judging from the smell, it’s chicken soup again.
‘Hey Derek,’ the guard - Sylvester, his name is, but Morgan calls him Sly - greets Morgan. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Same old,’ he laments. The question is asked day after day, even if there’s no chance of the answer being any different. ‘Any news from the outside?’
In the hierarchy of prisoners, Sly is a little further up - he gets around the prison, and he hears things, and maybe he’s even seen them.
‘I hear it’s been raining,’ Sly says with a shrug, ‘But I figure that’s not really the news you’re interested in.’
Derek gives the other man a grin, but it’s a tired smile that holds no mirth. ‘Thanks anyway, man.’
‘I’m sure they’re doing something,’ Sly tells him. ‘There’s no way everyone’s just sitting around.’
‘I get the feeling we’d know,’ Morgan sighs. ‘Right now, it feels like we’re just caught in some kinda holding pattern. Like everyone else is either dead, or in exactly the same situation as us.’
It’s a sobering thought, one that he has all afternoon to ponder, as Sly leaves him with his meal - soup, bread and a fruit cup, which is new. He saves some of the soup and the fruit cup for Spencer, who’s always hungry when he comes back, and the evening meal usually doesn’t come until much later.
He lets lunch settle for a while, and then does his afternoon exercises. A thousand sit-ups seems to go so much faster when there’s nothing else to do. He’s a long way from making it to a thousand push-ups, though. It’s a goal that he has plenty of time to work on.
Today, Reid comes back a little earlier than usual.
An hour, or so early, by Morgan’s reckoning. It’s a different prisoner that brings him in this time - a young Spanish man, who doesn’t speak much English. He carries half of Reid’s weight across his shoulders, the young genius clammy and sweating.
‘Reid!’ Morgan jumps to his feet, waiting impatiently as the cell door unlocks. The Spanish man shifts Reid over awkwardly, and Morgan catches him with ease.
‘Gracias,’ Morgan says, not particularly caring that his pronunciation is unequivocally terrible. The Spanish man nods, and points to his head, before gesturing back to Reid.
‘Cerebro.’
Morgan frowns. Cerebro? ‘Brain? Is that…’
‘Sí - brain.’ He rolls his r’s over the word, and Morgan briefly wonders just where the man is from. Sly is from Toronto, which in the scheme of things, isn’t exactly anywhere near Virginia. It would make sense, if they were moving their prisoners around, making rescue that much more difficult. It gives him just that little bit of hope that maybe there’s actually someone left out there to rescue them.
‘They were working on his brain?’
The man frowns, and Reid gives a slight moan. Morgan lays him down on the mattress gently, using the empty cup from his lunch to get Reid some water.
‘They…’ The man took his right hand, and pushed it across the back of his head. ‘Scan.’ He shakes his head, as though he doesn’t know anymore. Maybe he’s just afraid.
‘Hey, wait!’ Morgan calls out, as the man turns around to leave. ‘I’m…Mi nombre es Derek.’
‘Miguel,’ the man replies. A door slams in the distance, and Miguel jumps. ‘Lo siento. Me tengo que ir.’ Morgan doesn’t understand any of that, but judging by the speed with which Miguel leaves, he’d probably been announcing his departure.
Morgan turns his attention back towards Reid, who is shivering beneath the thin cotton sheet.
‘Hey,’ he whispers, trying to keep his voice as reassuring as possible. ‘It’s okay.’ Really, the words are empty, because he doesn’t know that it’s okay. He doesn’t know what’s going on. All he knows is that day after day, Reid comes back a wreck, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
‘They tried to give me narcotics,’ Reid murmurs, showing Morgan the bruises on his forearms. ‘I could tolerate the scans, and the blood tests, and the experiments…but I can’t go back to being that person.’ His voice is so weak, and yet so strong at the same time.
‘We’ll get out of here,’ Morgan says, determined, but it’s that same empty promise.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Universe: Alien Cantos
Characters/Pairing: Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan - gen/pre-slash
Genre: Science Fiction/Suspense
Summary: It’s been eight days, but it feels like a lifetime. Slight Reid!whump.
…
Alien Cantos: An Orange Sky
Black trees against an orange sky,
Trees that the wind shook terribly,
Like a harsh spume along the road,
Quavering up like withered arms,
Writhing like streams, like twisted charms
Of hot lead flung in snow. Below
The iron ice stung like a goad,
Slashing the torn shoes from my feet,
And all the air was bitter sleet.
The Quality of Courage - Stephen Vincent Benet
.
Keep your fears to yourself, but share your courage with others.
Robert Lois Stevenson
...
Day Eight
Derek Morgan stares at the plain, brick wall.
It’s a fairly bland cell, by any description of the word. There are two hard, unforgiving mattresses, a toilet and sink, and not a whole lot else.
Sometimes, when Reid comes back from his sessions, he brings a book, or a magazine, or even half a pack of Twizzlers. There’s someone out there that sympathizes, but Derek doesn’t know who they are, or even what their species is.
It’s the eighth day of the invasion (they don’t have anything to mark the days off on the wall, but Reid knows) and Derek Morgan hasn’t left his cell once. He’s not quite sure why they even keep him here.
Probably collateral.
After all, Reid’s more likely to cooperate with their demands if he knows that someone will get hurt if he doesn’t. It’s a testament to Reid’s strength, then, that Morgan hasn’t even so much as seen an alien in the time that he’s been here.
He’s not entirely sure what Reid has seen, only that every time the younger man returns, he’s sweaty and shaking, and he won’t say a damn thing about what they’re doing to him.
He’s not used to being this helpless. He’s used to investigating, and profiling, and tackling. It’s amazing how quickly things can fall apart. One day you’re hunting down serial killers for a living, and the next you’re abducted by fucking aliens.
It’s not an easy transition.
The rest of the team, as far as he knows, could be anywhere. They could be in the cell two doors down. They could be a thousand miles away. Morgan knows as much about their fate as he does about the history of buffalo.
Not a damn thing.
Footsteps start to echo down the hall, and Morgan straightens. It’s too early for Reid - usually they keep him out of the cell until late afternoon, at least. His stomach tells him that it’s around lunchtime, but that’s becoming more and more of a human construct, of late. The cell is like some kind of semi-sensory deprivation experience, and he uses his own measure of time to make things a little more bearable.
Food comes when it comes.
The guard (who isn’t really a guard at all, but another prisoner) is short and stocky, wearing overalls that look like they haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine since the turn of the century. He has a tray in his hand; judging from the smell, it’s chicken soup again.
‘Hey Derek,’ the guard - Sylvester, his name is, but Morgan calls him Sly - greets Morgan. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Same old,’ he laments. The question is asked day after day, even if there’s no chance of the answer being any different. ‘Any news from the outside?’
In the hierarchy of prisoners, Sly is a little further up - he gets around the prison, and he hears things, and maybe he’s even seen them.
‘I hear it’s been raining,’ Sly says with a shrug, ‘But I figure that’s not really the news you’re interested in.’
Derek gives the other man a grin, but it’s a tired smile that holds no mirth. ‘Thanks anyway, man.’
‘I’m sure they’re doing something,’ Sly tells him. ‘There’s no way everyone’s just sitting around.’
‘I get the feeling we’d know,’ Morgan sighs. ‘Right now, it feels like we’re just caught in some kinda holding pattern. Like everyone else is either dead, or in exactly the same situation as us.’
It’s a sobering thought, one that he has all afternoon to ponder, as Sly leaves him with his meal - soup, bread and a fruit cup, which is new. He saves some of the soup and the fruit cup for Spencer, who’s always hungry when he comes back, and the evening meal usually doesn’t come until much later.
He lets lunch settle for a while, and then does his afternoon exercises. A thousand sit-ups seems to go so much faster when there’s nothing else to do. He’s a long way from making it to a thousand push-ups, though. It’s a goal that he has plenty of time to work on.
Today, Reid comes back a little earlier than usual.
An hour, or so early, by Morgan’s reckoning. It’s a different prisoner that brings him in this time - a young Spanish man, who doesn’t speak much English. He carries half of Reid’s weight across his shoulders, the young genius clammy and sweating.
‘Reid!’ Morgan jumps to his feet, waiting impatiently as the cell door unlocks. The Spanish man shifts Reid over awkwardly, and Morgan catches him with ease.
‘Gracias,’ Morgan says, not particularly caring that his pronunciation is unequivocally terrible. The Spanish man nods, and points to his head, before gesturing back to Reid.
‘Cerebro.’
Morgan frowns. Cerebro? ‘Brain? Is that…’
‘Sí - brain.’ He rolls his r’s over the word, and Morgan briefly wonders just where the man is from. Sly is from Toronto, which in the scheme of things, isn’t exactly anywhere near Virginia. It would make sense, if they were moving their prisoners around, making rescue that much more difficult. It gives him just that little bit of hope that maybe there’s actually someone left out there to rescue them.
‘They were working on his brain?’
The man frowns, and Reid gives a slight moan. Morgan lays him down on the mattress gently, using the empty cup from his lunch to get Reid some water.
‘They…’ The man took his right hand, and pushed it across the back of his head. ‘Scan.’ He shakes his head, as though he doesn’t know anymore. Maybe he’s just afraid.
‘Hey, wait!’ Morgan calls out, as the man turns around to leave. ‘I’m…Mi nombre es Derek.’
‘Miguel,’ the man replies. A door slams in the distance, and Miguel jumps. ‘Lo siento. Me tengo que ir.’ Morgan doesn’t understand any of that, but judging by the speed with which Miguel leaves, he’d probably been announcing his departure.
Morgan turns his attention back towards Reid, who is shivering beneath the thin cotton sheet.
‘Hey,’ he whispers, trying to keep his voice as reassuring as possible. ‘It’s okay.’ Really, the words are empty, because he doesn’t know that it’s okay. He doesn’t know what’s going on. All he knows is that day after day, Reid comes back a wreck, and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.
‘They tried to give me narcotics,’ Reid murmurs, showing Morgan the bruises on his forearms. ‘I could tolerate the scans, and the blood tests, and the experiments…but I can’t go back to being that person.’ His voice is so weak, and yet so strong at the same time.
‘We’ll get out of here,’ Morgan says, determined, but it’s that same empty promise.