drabblicious
Title: none
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Warnings: none really, unless language offends you that much. and, as usual, this is hugely unbeta-ed, and tremendously fragmentary.
Notes: for luckinfovely , who requested:
1. Reid cheating
2. Morgan and Reid's biggest fight.
...I'm not sure this succeeds in fulfilling either of those. here's hoping.
There are a million ways this could have ended (though, if he's honest with himself, he never saw an end, never wanted an end, never looked anywhere at anything ever except--).
A million ways.
But somehow, this moment is where it all comes crashing to a halt. This hits Morgan like a blow to the chest--and it is the end. That, he knows, with a cold and leaden certainty, before he's even turned back to the door. Before the door closes and Reid doesn't call his name.
He's numb all the way to his car.
And then he punches the door.
And then he has to drive home, eyes burning, throat tight, knuckles throbbing and splitting and bleeding.
.
He isn't drunk when Reid comes home (comes back? Just comes to the apartment--because god knows this isn't their home anymore). He's bitter and woozy and tired, but not drunk--if only because the beer tasted flat and stale when he tried to suck it down.
Reid enters the kitchen and Morgan looks up and doesn't bother at all to conceal his glare.
"Get what you need"--and, Christ, he sounds hoarse, even to himself--"and get out."
"Morgan--"
"Don't."
Reid has the gall to look hurt. And the decency to look ashamed. And all Morgan can really see is already two hours past: a hand in Reid's hair and a mouth marking Reid's jaw and the press of hips against hips, Reid leaning into (welcoming, loving, wanting) the touch of a man that isn't Morgan. There's a funny ringing sound in Morgan's ears and a churning in his stomach and his hand still smarts in red-webbed bursts while he feels the world unravel around him.
"I thought you knew," Reid whispers, breaking the silence.
"You--what?"
Reid gestures shapelessly and looks away. "It's been months." He rakes a hand through his hair. "We've been over for months."
Morgan can't help but sneer. "Well, I guess we've been looking at things a little differently because this is all news to me, kiddo."
The look Reid gives him is nothing short of vicious. "You had enough sense to follow me to a bar though." His lip curls. "But you were totally clueless. Right."
"So why not just tell me? If we were so obviously over, why couldn't you just be man enough to say it?" He makes a sound, rough and barking. A mockery of a laugh. "Easier to do it this way, right? Let me be the bad guy driving you away."
"Fuck you."
Morgan's mouth thins. His jaw knots. A tight, prickling, electric, red ball has hooked itself to his insides, somewhere between his lungs and his diaphragm. Energy winds up between his joints, sucking inward with nowhere to go. Pulling and pulling towards the boiling red knot. And Reid glares (his gaze hot and black and baleful), still standing across the kitchen and somehow a million miles away and--
Oh, Morgan can feel the space between them fracture.
"Fuck you," Reid says again. "I didn't want this. I didn't do it just to hurt--"
Morgan reaches for the nearest solid object he can find. The mug crashes through the window over the kitchen sink in a glittering shower of glass (an explosion of sound).
"Goddamnit Reid. So what did you do? Fuck him by accident?"
Injured dignity. "You don't know that--"
"Man shut the fuck up. Stop with the victim bullshit. You could have not done anything at all. You could have fucking talked to me--"
"I tried--"
"Like hell you did!"
Cool air rolls through the shattered window and Morgan slumps against the counter, gaze falling to his red-ruined knuckles. The weight of the blame (the effort of hurling it, the guilt of bearing it) drags him downward. His hands twist into fists (spark spasms of pain), tendons popping. Strong. Hard. Furious.
And useless.
"You're my whole world, kid."
But the damage is done (and isn't it funny, isn't it unfair, that knowing it doesn't make it hurt any less) and no amount of pretty words, no quiet admissions can fix what has suddenly frayed beyond repair.
"No I'm not, Morgan."
Morgan looks up. Reid squares his shoulders. His eyes are wide and bright. He speaks quietly.
"You. You let me in sometimes. But--"
A choked halt.
A motion (a twisting, a reaching, a wrenching, unstoppable force).
And Reid is gone.
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Warnings: none really, unless language offends you that much. and, as usual, this is hugely unbeta-ed, and tremendously fragmentary.
Notes: for luckinfovely , who requested:
1. Reid cheating
2. Morgan and Reid's biggest fight.
...I'm not sure this succeeds in fulfilling either of those. here's hoping.
There are a million ways this could have ended (though, if he's honest with himself, he never saw an end, never wanted an end, never looked anywhere at anything ever except--).
A million ways.
But somehow, this moment is where it all comes crashing to a halt. This hits Morgan like a blow to the chest--and it is the end. That, he knows, with a cold and leaden certainty, before he's even turned back to the door. Before the door closes and Reid doesn't call his name.
He's numb all the way to his car.
And then he punches the door.
And then he has to drive home, eyes burning, throat tight, knuckles throbbing and splitting and bleeding.
.
He isn't drunk when Reid comes home (comes back? Just comes to the apartment--because god knows this isn't their home anymore). He's bitter and woozy and tired, but not drunk--if only because the beer tasted flat and stale when he tried to suck it down.
Reid enters the kitchen and Morgan looks up and doesn't bother at all to conceal his glare.
"Get what you need"--and, Christ, he sounds hoarse, even to himself--"and get out."
"Morgan--"
"Don't."
Reid has the gall to look hurt. And the decency to look ashamed. And all Morgan can really see is already two hours past: a hand in Reid's hair and a mouth marking Reid's jaw and the press of hips against hips, Reid leaning into (welcoming, loving, wanting) the touch of a man that isn't Morgan. There's a funny ringing sound in Morgan's ears and a churning in his stomach and his hand still smarts in red-webbed bursts while he feels the world unravel around him.
"I thought you knew," Reid whispers, breaking the silence.
"You--what?"
Reid gestures shapelessly and looks away. "It's been months." He rakes a hand through his hair. "We've been over for months."
Morgan can't help but sneer. "Well, I guess we've been looking at things a little differently because this is all news to me, kiddo."
The look Reid gives him is nothing short of vicious. "You had enough sense to follow me to a bar though." His lip curls. "But you were totally clueless. Right."
"So why not just tell me? If we were so obviously over, why couldn't you just be man enough to say it?" He makes a sound, rough and barking. A mockery of a laugh. "Easier to do it this way, right? Let me be the bad guy driving you away."
"Fuck you."
Morgan's mouth thins. His jaw knots. A tight, prickling, electric, red ball has hooked itself to his insides, somewhere between his lungs and his diaphragm. Energy winds up between his joints, sucking inward with nowhere to go. Pulling and pulling towards the boiling red knot. And Reid glares (his gaze hot and black and baleful), still standing across the kitchen and somehow a million miles away and--
Oh, Morgan can feel the space between them fracture.
"Fuck you," Reid says again. "I didn't want this. I didn't do it just to hurt--"
Morgan reaches for the nearest solid object he can find. The mug crashes through the window over the kitchen sink in a glittering shower of glass (an explosion of sound).
"Goddamnit Reid. So what did you do? Fuck him by accident?"
Injured dignity. "You don't know that--"
"Man shut the fuck up. Stop with the victim bullshit. You could have not done anything at all. You could have fucking talked to me--"
"I tried--"
"Like hell you did!"
Cool air rolls through the shattered window and Morgan slumps against the counter, gaze falling to his red-ruined knuckles. The weight of the blame (the effort of hurling it, the guilt of bearing it) drags him downward. His hands twist into fists (spark spasms of pain), tendons popping. Strong. Hard. Furious.
And useless.
"You're my whole world, kid."
But the damage is done (and isn't it funny, isn't it unfair, that knowing it doesn't make it hurt any less) and no amount of pretty words, no quiet admissions can fix what has suddenly frayed beyond repair.
"No I'm not, Morgan."
Morgan looks up. Reid squares his shoulders. His eyes are wide and bright. He speaks quietly.
"You. You let me in sometimes. But--"
A choked halt.
A motion (a twisting, a reaching, a wrenching, unstoppable force).
And Reid is gone.