writing things?
and they're things for luckinfovely no less! because I keep my promises...sort of?
anyway, this is total drabble. I promised a scene, but this is more like a segment than a scene. or something. I've also apparently attempted to make sure it makes as little sense as possible. I don't think I even tried to reach for linearity or hint at any sort of context.
I'll just be off drowning myself in a toilet.
Title: untitled
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Disclaimer: don't own, don't sue.
Description: drabbled bits of a not-story. the result of a speculation that went something like this: 'I can just see Reid having a nervous breakdown over his newly discovered telekinesis and Morgan failing to comfort him'. that was the gist of it anyway. I don't really know how I ended up with this thing instead.
Warnings: angst. crackfic. zero continuity. unfinished. also unbeta-d, so if I missed any glaringly obvious mistakes, please please please point them out to me.
Morgan’s done a lot of stupid things in his life, but secret-keeping is always something he’s had a talent for.
He wonders now, if that’s what brought Reid to his door. Now, almost a year later, while he’s sitting, exhausted, in a hospital waiting room, Morgan remembers Reid on the other side of the threshold, with something like blue light crackling at his fingertips-and Morgan could kick himself for not having imagined it could get this bad.
…---…
“It-uh. I can’t explain it. I can make lightning, sort of. And I can make things move. Without touching them. You know. Like-uh. Like. Telekinesis. I think.”
“Reid-”
“Which is totally ridiculous, I know. I mean, not completely impossible because some theories state that if the movement of all of the electrons in your body were to match up with the movement of all of the electrons in any given solid object, you would be able to walk through the object-and I’m just extrapolating here because quantum mechanics isn’t really my field of expertise, but maybe this is an extension of something like that. Electromagnetic fields disrupted by the quantum behavior in my physical being. It’s highly improbable but maybe-”
“Hey. Kid.” Morgan took hold of Reid’s shoulders. “You’re losing me with the technobabble. Just show me.”
A nod.
And then Morgan’s silverware was floating--fucking moving through thin air--and morphing and shifting through different patterns in the middle of his kitchen.
…---…
Garcia is first through the door the minute they’re allowed into the room, but she only hovers at the bedside, eventually reaching for J.J.’s hand, her eyes shining and bright.
Hotch is still talking to the doctors and Morgan is only distantly aware of Prentiss standing at his side, stiff as a board, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Reid isn’t moving on the bed. The shallow rise and fall of his chest, and the quiet bleat of the EKG are the only real promises that he’s even alive.
And there’s a funny rushing sound in Morgan’s ears, a persistent noise that’s getting louder by the minute. The world looks dim on the edges of his vision, and he feels trapped inside the hot skin of himself.
Hotch enters. Morgan can hear him talking, can hear his voice shaping itself into words and sentences-but that’s all. It’s like listening to the world through a glass box. Morgan thinks he might be sick.
…---…
“I told Hotch.”
“…Oh?”
The line of dishes halted in their independent march to the sink. Morgan looked at Reid-at Reid’s back, rather-and watched the line of his shoulders go sharp and tense.
“Look, kid. This is bigger than me. Hotch has to-”
“Hotch doesn’t have to know anything. I trusted you.”
He had braced himself against the counter, arms stiff and straight, knuckles white and curled around the countertop edge. His head hung forward and Morgan could hear the shaking tension in his voice.
“Reid…” He moved behind the kid, settled his hands on Reid’s hips. “Hey. You can still trust me. But what if something goes wrong on a case? What if you snap?” He tried to lighten his tone a little. “You know Hotch hates surprises.”
Reid twisted around, but not out of Morgan’s reach. Not away from his touch. His eyes were still too wide though, glittering darkly. “Have I ever snapped before?”
“No, but there’s a first time for everything. And Hotch isn’t going to just…hand you over to some lab.”
Reid looked down, frowning. Just touching him was like holding on to static-like leaning into a storm cloud.
“I’m sick of this…” he murmured. “I’m sick of being…this.”
There was nothing to say to that. So Morgan kissed him instead. At some point, the dishes-all of which had been poised on edge, trembling in the tension-crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering was only a momentary interruption in the wet noise of their mouths meeting, over and over again.
…---…
“How are you feeling?” Garcia whispers, eventually.
It’s late-maybe even very late. They’re the only ones left in the room and there are a million things Garcia could have asked. How did this happen? or, better yet, What the fuck is going on?--provided she doesn’t know already. Maybe Reid told her. Maybe Hotch told her. Maybe-
But no. How are you feeling?
Morgan’s eyes itch and there’s a pinching pressure building between them. His face, his left eye socket and cheek, they are still stinging beneath the burn-salve and the gauze. The ache in his shoulder runs deep, where skin and sinew have been stitched back together. It hurts to lift his left arm.
He shakes his head, eyes on Reid.
Oh god, Reid.
Suddenly, Garcia’s hugging him, holding him tight, and Morgan feels hollow and empty and dry. It takes whatever store of strength he has left not to fold into her, not to collapse into her embrace. Before he wanted to break things, wanted to smash something, anything, to pieces. Now, though, he just feels like he’s teetering at the edge of some canyon, falling forward into vertigo-at once weightless, helpless, and waiting to be crushed.
“What if he doesn’t wake up?” he whispers against her hair. “Garcia-” He breaks off, swallowing hard.
She doesn’t say anything. The EKG keeps beating. The respirator or the ventilator or whatever the fucking fake external, metal lungs are called-they keep a quiet rhythm. Breathing in and out and in and out.
anyway, this is total drabble. I promised a scene, but this is more like a segment than a scene. or something. I've also apparently attempted to make sure it makes as little sense as possible. I don't think I even tried to reach for linearity or hint at any sort of context.
I'll just be off drowning myself in a toilet.
Title: untitled
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Disclaimer: don't own, don't sue.
Description: drabbled bits of a not-story. the result of a speculation that went something like this: 'I can just see Reid having a nervous breakdown over his newly discovered telekinesis and Morgan failing to comfort him'. that was the gist of it anyway. I don't really know how I ended up with this thing instead.
Warnings: angst. crackfic. zero continuity. unfinished. also unbeta-d, so if I missed any glaringly obvious mistakes, please please please point them out to me.
Morgan’s done a lot of stupid things in his life, but secret-keeping is always something he’s had a talent for.
He wonders now, if that’s what brought Reid to his door. Now, almost a year later, while he’s sitting, exhausted, in a hospital waiting room, Morgan remembers Reid on the other side of the threshold, with something like blue light crackling at his fingertips-and Morgan could kick himself for not having imagined it could get this bad.
…---…
“It-uh. I can’t explain it. I can make lightning, sort of. And I can make things move. Without touching them. You know. Like-uh. Like. Telekinesis. I think.”
“Reid-”
“Which is totally ridiculous, I know. I mean, not completely impossible because some theories state that if the movement of all of the electrons in your body were to match up with the movement of all of the electrons in any given solid object, you would be able to walk through the object-and I’m just extrapolating here because quantum mechanics isn’t really my field of expertise, but maybe this is an extension of something like that. Electromagnetic fields disrupted by the quantum behavior in my physical being. It’s highly improbable but maybe-”
“Hey. Kid.” Morgan took hold of Reid’s shoulders. “You’re losing me with the technobabble. Just show me.”
A nod.
And then Morgan’s silverware was floating--fucking moving through thin air--and morphing and shifting through different patterns in the middle of his kitchen.
…---…
Garcia is first through the door the minute they’re allowed into the room, but she only hovers at the bedside, eventually reaching for J.J.’s hand, her eyes shining and bright.
Hotch is still talking to the doctors and Morgan is only distantly aware of Prentiss standing at his side, stiff as a board, her lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. Reid isn’t moving on the bed. The shallow rise and fall of his chest, and the quiet bleat of the EKG are the only real promises that he’s even alive.
And there’s a funny rushing sound in Morgan’s ears, a persistent noise that’s getting louder by the minute. The world looks dim on the edges of his vision, and he feels trapped inside the hot skin of himself.
Hotch enters. Morgan can hear him talking, can hear his voice shaping itself into words and sentences-but that’s all. It’s like listening to the world through a glass box. Morgan thinks he might be sick.
…---…
“I told Hotch.”
“…Oh?”
The line of dishes halted in their independent march to the sink. Morgan looked at Reid-at Reid’s back, rather-and watched the line of his shoulders go sharp and tense.
“Look, kid. This is bigger than me. Hotch has to-”
“Hotch doesn’t have to know anything. I trusted you.”
He had braced himself against the counter, arms stiff and straight, knuckles white and curled around the countertop edge. His head hung forward and Morgan could hear the shaking tension in his voice.
“Reid…” He moved behind the kid, settled his hands on Reid’s hips. “Hey. You can still trust me. But what if something goes wrong on a case? What if you snap?” He tried to lighten his tone a little. “You know Hotch hates surprises.”
Reid twisted around, but not out of Morgan’s reach. Not away from his touch. His eyes were still too wide though, glittering darkly. “Have I ever snapped before?”
“No, but there’s a first time for everything. And Hotch isn’t going to just…hand you over to some lab.”
Reid looked down, frowning. Just touching him was like holding on to static-like leaning into a storm cloud.
“I’m sick of this…” he murmured. “I’m sick of being…this.”
There was nothing to say to that. So Morgan kissed him instead. At some point, the dishes-all of which had been poised on edge, trembling in the tension-crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering was only a momentary interruption in the wet noise of their mouths meeting, over and over again.
…---…
“How are you feeling?” Garcia whispers, eventually.
It’s late-maybe even very late. They’re the only ones left in the room and there are a million things Garcia could have asked. How did this happen? or, better yet, What the fuck is going on?--provided she doesn’t know already. Maybe Reid told her. Maybe Hotch told her. Maybe-
But no. How are you feeling?
Morgan’s eyes itch and there’s a pinching pressure building between them. His face, his left eye socket and cheek, they are still stinging beneath the burn-salve and the gauze. The ache in his shoulder runs deep, where skin and sinew have been stitched back together. It hurts to lift his left arm.
He shakes his head, eyes on Reid.
Oh god, Reid.
Suddenly, Garcia’s hugging him, holding him tight, and Morgan feels hollow and empty and dry. It takes whatever store of strength he has left not to fold into her, not to collapse into her embrace. Before he wanted to break things, wanted to smash something, anything, to pieces. Now, though, he just feels like he’s teetering at the edge of some canyon, falling forward into vertigo-at once weightless, helpless, and waiting to be crushed.
“What if he doesn’t wake up?” he whispers against her hair. “Garcia-” He breaks off, swallowing hard.
She doesn’t say anything. The EKG keeps beating. The respirator or the ventilator or whatever the fucking fake external, metal lungs are called-they keep a quiet rhythm. Breathing in and out and in and out.