Fic: The Winter Is Warmer 5/?
Title: The Winter Is Warmer [5/?]
Author: wanderingjasper
Rating: FRT
Characters: Morgan, Reid
Word Count: 3574
Themes: Drama, angst
Warnings: Themes of non-con, rape, abuse, violence, angst, suicidal ideation, graphic imagery.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, but I do take liberties with them for no financial gain.
Notes: Previous chapters: here.
Summary: Morgan isn't coping.
“God has mercifully ordered that the human brain works slowly; first the blow, hours afterwards the bruise.” - Walter de la Mare
Morgan ignored the knock the first time. He had no interest in company, it felt invasive enough that his team kept phoning him. He’d answered only one call; Hotch midweek, and the conversation had consisted mainly of Morgan telling him he didn’t need to be constantly checked up on. The second knock alerted Clooney, who rushed into the hallway and started to bark; it was a fierce and frantic sound, and it had been for some months. Gone were the days when Clooney greeted visitors with curious enthusiasm unless his owner’s body language gave him cause for concern; now everyone was a potential threat.
“Shh, Clooney,” he called as he limped towards the hall. “Quiet, boy.”
He checked the peep hole and was not too surprised to recognise Reid’s distorted form through the magnifying glass. He strokes the dog to try to get him to calm down as he unlocked the door, but he was antsy and whimpered as Morgan cracked the door open.
“Hi Morgan,” Reid said, a smile pulling at his mouth.
The man intended to dismiss him quickly, but something inside of him relented and he opened the door further, holding Clooney back with his leg. The dog stopped barking when he recognised the new arrival, but even his newly focused affection didn’t totally distract Reid’s gaze as Morgan relocked the door. There had been several additions to his security in the six days since Reid had left; as well as the original lock and alarm there was now a top and bottom slide bolt lock, a security chain and a dead bolt.
He pocketed the keys and slunk back through to the living room, taking up his half glass of whiskey from the wooden coffee table. He took a drink as he watched Reid’s eyes take everything in; the three empty liquor bottles and the half full one on the table, the ashtray and open cigarette packet.
“How are you doing, Morgan?” the man asked hesitantly.
“Fine.” He knew it was small talk, and he knew ‘fine’ was the correct response. People tended not to really want to know if you weren’t.
Reid crossed his arms over his chest as Morgan turned on the spot, reaching for a white cardboard pack of medication on the shelf above the fireplace. The out of rhythm exhale he noticed he was sure was in reaction to the man spotting that he had his gun tucked into the back of his tracksuit pants. He wondered why he was surprised, when he himself kept his gun so close and obvious on his belt when they worked because it made him feel safer. It was exactly what Morgan was doing.
“Morgan,” he continued to sound hesitant as Morgan pushed two pills through their foil packet and put them into his mouth, throwing his head back and then easing their passage with whiskey, “you shouldn’t be mixing painkillers with alcohol.”
He had no time to wonder why there was a sudden hot stab of anger in his chest, but it twisted hard between his ribs and before he could rationalise it his fingers slipped on the white packet and he threw it with as much force as its mass would allow at the other man. It hit Reid square in the chest and he fumbled to catch it, and Morgan felt a fleeting disappointment that it hadn’t hit him in his stupid concerned kind face. Morgan swilled his drink and didn’t look at the other man, but could hear the packets of tablets moving as Reid turned the box over in his hands.
“PEP,” Reid said blankly. “Post-exposure prophylaxis. This is... this is an emergency antiretroviral treatment for HIV exposure.”
Morgan let himself meet Reid’s eyes, and masked how much it hurt to see the man look crestfallen, because it was a stark reminder of the dire nature of the situation he was facing.
“I got tested, and it came back negative,” he said thickly, drinking more to try and sooth the sudden dry tightness of his throat. “I have to get tested again in three months. Then six. Then a year. But for another three weeks I have that medication. And I feel sick, and tired, and I have no idea if he has HIV and I’ve been exposed. So I’m fine,” he added bitterly.
He downed his drink and moved over to the sofa to drop heavily on it and reach for the bottle again. Reid came and joined him on the couch, watching him intently. He could feel the alcohol starting to make it necessary for him to put more effort into making his movements look natural, and he was glad for the approaching numbness, because he body still ached.
“You want one?” Morgan offered shortly, gesturing the bottle as he finished pouring whiskey to half fill his tumbler.
“I drove here,” Reid said, but Morgan was already filling another glass. He took it when it was offered, but Morgan doubted he’d drink it.
Morgan took the television off mute and tried to get comfortable - the press of his gun into his back was a constant reminder that he wasn’t safe. He scratched idly at the scruffy facial hair he hadn’t shaved in a week, which would become a full beard soon. He simply didn’t care, and shaving took energy and effort. It would also reveal more of the bruising still discolouring his face, even if the swelling had greatly reduced. He had no reason to shave to look presentable; he still had another fortnight of compulsory medical absence, he had no intention of trying to score in a club, and Reid certainly didn’t want him.
Any fleeting hope he’d held that perhaps that might have been the case had been irradiated; so many times in their time together days earlier Reid could have done something, and Morgan would have permitted anything. If, while he was holding him up in the shower, he had pinned him to the wall and fucked him, Morgan would have taken it just because he knew Reid was his friend, and he loved him. He shook his head a little, his brain rather sluggishly realising how ridiculous and twisted that thought was. Reid was his friend, he wasn’t James; it probably hadn’t even crossed his mind as he supported him that it was a situation that he could have easily made sexual with Morgan so incapacitated. Reid was not an abuser, it was James who was, Morgan reminded himself as he drank deeply from his glass. Even if by some rare chance Reid had ever thought about them together, the older knew he would never act on it now, because Morgan was damaged. That wouldn’t be Reid’s reasoning, it would be pure and good, not wanting in any way to take advantage of what had happened, but to Morgan it still felt like the damage he had suffered had also destroyed the last fleeting hope he’d had that the man he was in love with could ever feel the same.
“Why are you here?” Morgan asked, dragging his eyes away from the light and colour blaring from the television to look at Reid.
“Because I’m your friend, Morgan,” he said gently.
“Everyone else got the hint and stayed away.”
“You didn’t tell everyone else about this, you told me. You told me about James, you called me when he attacked you, and the last time I was here you implied you wanted to talk to me.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he grumbled into his drink.
“You know Hotch is going to make you talk to a councillor before he lets you come back to work, don’t you?”
Morgan flinched. He hadn’t considered that. Instead of answering he took a drink from his glass again, concentrating on the feeling of the alcohol coursing down his sore throat.
“Do you think I should have known better?” he asked suddenly, turning his face towards a surprised Reid.
“What?”
“I’m a profiler. I should have known, right?”
“This isn’t your fault, Morgan.”
“I let him beat the crap out of me, Reid!” he sighed.
“You didn’t ‘let’ him do anything,” the man said patiently.
“I knew he was dangerous. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid. We profile guys like him every day. And I still... I still...” When Reid stayed quiet and let him talk, his gaze moved again, focusing instead on the whiskey in his glass. “It got bad so fast, and it’s not like he even told me he loved me. So it wasn’t like the typical model of violence, I wasn’t staying because I loved him or because he said he loved me. But I agreed to everything, thinking...” he shook his head a little. “So he had leverage to make me stay so fast. And it was still better than nothing, than lying to myself. I wanted a dude to touch me and not hurt me since the last man who touched me was Carl Buford, and I ended up here.”
He refilled his glass, knowing full well it was lubricating his inhibitions about talking.
“Maybe it’s just meant to hurt,” he muttered bitterly into his glass.
“It’s not,” Reid said. “Morgan, you don’t deserve for it to hurt, and it’s not meant to.”
He reached out, and for a second seemed like he was going to touch Morgan’s arm, but he withdrew the hand. Morgan threw the half-full glass of whiskey back and went to pour another.
“Take it easy, Morgan.”
“Leave it Reid, I need this,” he snapped. “You have no idea how much it helps with the damn pain.”
“I don’t know the pain you’re going through,” he admitted. “But I do know what’s it’s like to use substance to dull it, remember?”
Morgan nodded his understanding; he did remember, and he remembered feelings so useless to help him. He wondered if that was how Reid felt right now.
“After Hankel,” Morgan said, “did it ever feel weird that everything else in life kept moving? I mean I know the world isn’t gonna stop for what happened but... I did. And everything else is still going, but I stopped after. After coming home from the hospital it’s been like I’m in some kind of time capsule. I haven’t left this damn house.”
He reached for the open packet of cigarettes on the table, and lit one. Reid’s eyes followed him, but he didn’t comment even though the man knew he didn’t smoke. Morgan couldn’t say for sure why he’d started; he’d found the mostly full packet forgotten in a draw, discarded from entertaining a friend who smoked. The acrid bite of the smoke passing into his lungs was already strangely appealing.
“Want one?” he shook the packet in Reid’s direction, knowing he’d decline. He did, and Morgan tossed the packet back onto the table and leaned back, breathing out the first lungful of smoke with a sigh.
“It takes seven seconds for nicotine to get from lungs to brain.” He murmured, surprised Reid wasn’t already telling him the same.
“The increase of acetylcholine and beta-endorphin reduces pain and anxiety,” Reid offered, by way of explaining why he hadn’t commented on Morgan’s behaviour; even if they both knew it was short sighted, they knew why smoking seemed to help. “Nicotine also extends dopamine effects. It suppresses appetite and speeds metabolism.”
“Good.” Morgan shrugged, topping up his glass with whiskey.
“When was the last time you ate, Morgan?” Reid asked, concern clear in his voice.
“Uuhh,” Morgan sounded into his whiskey, “I don’t know.”
“You should. I can make you something, what do-”
“I’m not hungry, Reid.”
“With the amount of alcohol you seem set on consuming, you should really-”
“Should what?” Morgan snapped, the cigarette perched between fingers that clutched his glass forgotten, the ash disturbed by a jerky movement and dusting his thigh. “Tell me Reid. Tell me what I should be doing. Because I have no damn idea. No clue what the fuck I’m meant to do now, how I’m meant to deal. Am I meant to stay in bed? Cry? See a therapist? Talk about it? Do I go get over it? And how? How am I meant to do that?” He could feel his words slurring together, but it kept coming. “Will I get over it once I’m healed? Once I forget? When I don’t feel dirty all the time? When I can look in the mirror without wanting to tear my own damn face off?”
“Morgan-”
“I don’t know what I’m meant to do, Reid.” He tried to take another drink, but he spluttered into it and tried very hard to keep his emotions in check. “Everybody knows. The whole team knows, how am I meant to deal with them knowing, you knowing?”
“Morgan, it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change that you’re my friend and my colleague.”
“It changes everything!” he argued, gesturing with his glass. “How am I meant to go back to the BAU when I couldn’t even tell he was dangerous. No, that I knew, and I still stayed. I-I-” he paused, closing his eyes as he tried to focus his way through a sudden bubble of nausea. “I knew he was dangerous and I still got involved with him. What kind of profiler does that make me? What kind of person does that make me? I - oh, shit-”
The wave of nausea was sudden, and he pushed himself up, almost tripping on Reid’s leg on his way through to the nearest sensible place to vomit: the kitchen sink. He braced his hands either side and angled his face, unaware Reid had followed him until he felt the man take the half glass of whiskey and the still lit cigarette from his hand, allowing him a better grip on the sink. He could feel Reid standing close to him as he heaved and vomited into the sink; it had been so long since he’d eaten anything of note he was essentially expelling whiskey and bile. Nearby Clooney whined, and Reid shushed him.
“Get out,” he croaked when he could manage it, head bent low.
“Morgan-”
“Get out, Reid!” he yelled.
“I’m not-”
“Get out!” he bellowed, bracing his hands harder as he felt his body shake with the force of nausea. He didn’t want Reid there to witness it. “OUT, REID!”
Clooney, picking up on Morgan’s sudden change in attitude was caught between a whimper and a growl, and Morgan couldn’t be sure whether it was that or his shouting that made Reid retreat. He didn’t look up at him as he felt his presence leave the kitchen, trying to concentrate on not vomiting again.
As he vomited again he wished Reid didn’t respect him quite so much as to leave at his request.
---
“Morgan?”
The sound of Prentiss’ shock made Reid look up from his case file, just as surprised to see Morgan putting his go-bag on his chair. He was a mess: his v-neck was buttoned wrong, exposing the discoloration still showing on his chest, he hadn’t shaved since Reid had last seen him and was sporting a beard that extended messily under his chin, his usually cropped hair was starting to grow out; he’d evidently hurt his hand, because there was a bandage wrapped around the palm, he was holding himself at an angle that Reid suspected was a limp he’d have noticed if he’d seen him walk into the bullpen, and he reeked of alcohol.
“Morgan, what are you doing here?”
“I work here,” he told her, his word just slurred enough that both Reid and Prentiss exchanged a worried look.
It wasn’t long before Hotch was out of his office, heading towards them with purpose.
“Morgan.” His voice was firm but low, putting himself close to the other man as he tried to keep the disturbance to a minimum. None of the other agents working in the bullpen were paying them much attention, either because they hadn’t noticed, or realised it would be better to ignore them. “You’re still on medical leave; you haven’t been cleared to come back to work by a doctor or a counsellor, or by me.”
“I can do my job, Hotch,” Morgan said. Reid watched his shoulders squaring, and the flicker of pain as he straightened to face off their boss.
“You’ve been drinking.” Morgan said nothing. “And you drove here? Morgan.”
Reid cast his eyes quickly across to Prentiss, who was biting at her thumb nail as she watched the exchange. He was only thankful that Garcia, JJ and Rossi weren’t there to also bear witness.
“I need to come back to work, Hotch,” Morgan said firmly.
“You’ll be lucky if I don’t suspend you,” he warned. “I’m going to have someone drive you home.”
“I don’t need to be driven home,” Morgan growled. Hotch didn’t look away from his agent.
“Reid. Take Morgan home. We can cope without you for a while.”
He wasn’t all that surprised that Hotch called on him in the face of Morgan’s belligerence considering the part he’d played in the aftermath of Morgan’s attack. He wasn’t surprised either by Morgan’s venom.
“I don’t need babysitting, Hotch.”
“Clearly you do, if you’re driving drunk and coming to work looking like you’ve gone ten rounds with -” Hotch seemed to realise too late his phrase might be problematic, but it was too late. Morgan’s shoulders shook in a hollow laugh. He’d already made to leave by the time Reid had grabbed his bag up, casting a look back to Hotch long enough to see the concern on his face. Reid slipped into the elevator with him before the door shut completely.
“Morgan, man, what are you doing?”
“I’m in an elevator with a nosy fucking bastard,” he murmured, running a hand over his face. Reid didn’t take it to heart; he couldn’t afford to.
“You know you can’t come back yet.”
“I’ll decide when I come back.”
“No, you won’t.”
Reid could see the full extent of Morgan’s limp when they reached the parking level, then he hurried to catch up and put himself in front of Morgan.
“You’re not driving, Morgan,” he said firmly. Morgan tried to sidestep him, taking his keys out of his pocket and pressing to unlock his car. “I’m taking you home. Give me the keys.”
He was mentally preparing for Morgan to refuse, considering how quick he’d have to be to snatch them away when Morgan tossed them to him and climbed into the passenger side of his car.
Morgan didn’t speak, and Reid let him have the silence.
Reid was probably more surprised than he ought to be that Morgan’s house was in shambles. It was messy and dirty, and smelt heavily of alcohol and smoke. The first thing Morgan did was snatch up a half-empty bottle of vodka and tipped it back into his mouth.
“Don’t, Morgan,” Reid cringed.
“What?”
“Morgan I think you need to talk to someone.”
“Nothing to say.”
“You need to talk to a professional. Your risky behaviour is-”
“What, Doctor Reid? A fucked up way of coping?” Morgan laughed. “A reaction to trauma that’s spiral out of control? I know this. I know because I’ve been profiling it for damn near a decade. Give me some fucking credit.”
Reid watched as Morgan began to lift the bottle again, loose between his fingers, and Reid moved quickly to take it off him, turning his body away as Morgan tried to grab it back.
“Reid!”
“You’re drinking too much, Morgan.” He took a few steps back, Morgan tried to follow and almost lost his balance, reaching out to the back of the couch to steady himself.
“I don’t care. I don’t care!”
“Come on, sit down,” Reid said, ushering Morgan around to the sofa. He lolled back against it, a heavy hand rubbing his face.
“I just want to forget,” Morgan slurred. “Make it all go away. But it doesn’t go away. Drinking, sleeping. Can’t sleep without dreaming, remembering. Drinking makes it blurry, but doesn’t make it go away.”
“There are people you can see, who specialise in trauma survivors,” Reid offered gently, then hesitated. “Abuse survivors. Rape survivors.”
“This is surviving, is it? This is what surviving feels like?” Morgan laughed again, and it quickly turned into a sob as tears formed in his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands, curling into himself. “I can’t do this, Reid. Can’t go on.”
The fear was sudden and gripping, hearing his friend talk like that. For the briefest of moments he wondered if there was a part of him that wanted to act on an urge of selfish need, but he dismissed it as he closed the distance between them and slipped his arm around Morgan’s back. Immediately the man leant into him, still trying to quiet his sobs, but apparently too far gone to worry about his pride enough to resist the physical comfort. There were no words that seemed appropriate, especially when Reid wondered when the last time Morgan had been held my someone without being hurt.
“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.” - Laurell K. Hamilton