too much cold medicine, not enough sleep?
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Paring: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13 for language/R for implied proposition
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Minor for "Elephant's Memory" - in that sense that it happens after that, but nothing from the episode itself.
Word Count: 655
AN: Yffy as always is the best date in the world for Criminal Minds. This comes from cold medicines, caffeine, and watching TV with her. Also, thank you to poisontaster because she always posts writing and it's been wonderfully inspiring.
Morgan rolled the glass bottle between his fingers, back and forth, back and forth. How do you start a conversation like this one? His hands were clammy with sweat and condensation. His mouth was dry except when he drank. And drink he did, each long pull of cold beer somehow better than the one before, more necessary. Especially when he watched his every swallow tracked by focused eyes. Hands so often gave people away. This was no exception. White knuckles around a glass of Coke. When was the last time he'd loosened up and drank? Morgan tried to count back. It had been at least six months, no, longer, since he'd seen anything but soda in his hands? He coughed. "So, I've been thinking?"
"You have?"
"Yeah. 'Bout what you said to me, you know, when we were in Texas?"
"You brought me out, to a public place, to reminisce about my high school torment?" His voice cracked a little. He started to stand.
Morgan's hand shot out, clasped around his wrist. "No. Wait. It's not like that. I talked about it with -"
"You told someone? I said that because I trusted you to keep it a secret. I could have been fired for what I did, and you talked to someone about it. My god, who did you tell?" He shook.
Morgan ran a hand over his head. This was not going as planned. "Yeah, look, no specifics. I didn't give your name, but I needed to tell someone. I was going crazy trying to figure out how I could help."
His laugh was bitter. "You don't have to help. That wasn't why I told you. I don't need help, didn't ask for it, remember."
"Yeah, I know you didn't. You never do. You never ask for it even when you should. And you should have said something, damn it. You should have found me when you were getting so fucked up. I could have been there for you then." Morgan's frustration surprised him. He hadn't realized how much until he'd said it.
"Well, I didn't. And I'm not now. So what am I doing here? What are you?"
"Okay, so it's like this. I think you need to get it out of your system." Morgan swallowed more beer. Hell, the bottle was empty. He signalled for another one.
"Just like that? You want me to what? Talk it out?"
"No." Morgan watched skinny arms tighten over a skinny chest in a classic gesture of leave-me-alone. Long fingers clutched the strap of the ever present message bag, and he pictured what they would do clutching him. Where was his damned beer? "I don't think you should talk it out. You talk too much." The waitress dropped the bottle on the table. He didn't care how much he peeled out of his wallet for her. It was enough to know the drink was there and she was leaving. "I think someone - a lot of someones actually - did something terrible to you. And it lingers. I don't expect it'll ever go away."
"It hasn't yet," he whispered. "Even when I wish it could."
"So this is my thought. If you can't talk it out of your system, why not, umm, get it out a different way?" He was flushed, hot with embarrassment and desire and the need to make everything better, even if that meant making everything worse at the same time.
"What are you saying?"
He sighed, went back to rolling the bottle between his hands. "For a Ph.D, you can be pretty stupid. Come home with me. Tonight. Right now. Whenever. Be the aggressor. Get the jock. Bang me on the football field, or, you know, a wall or something, and move on with your life." He forced his eyes to meet the shocked look he was receiving across the table. "Maybe it's dumb, but I just thought, Reid, you gotta know, I'd like it. And it might help?"
Paring: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13 for language/R for implied proposition
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Minor for "Elephant's Memory" - in that sense that it happens after that, but nothing from the episode itself.
Word Count: 655
AN: Yffy as always is the best date in the world for Criminal Minds. This comes from cold medicines, caffeine, and watching TV with her. Also, thank you to poisontaster because she always posts writing and it's been wonderfully inspiring.
Morgan rolled the glass bottle between his fingers, back and forth, back and forth. How do you start a conversation like this one? His hands were clammy with sweat and condensation. His mouth was dry except when he drank. And drink he did, each long pull of cold beer somehow better than the one before, more necessary. Especially when he watched his every swallow tracked by focused eyes. Hands so often gave people away. This was no exception. White knuckles around a glass of Coke. When was the last time he'd loosened up and drank? Morgan tried to count back. It had been at least six months, no, longer, since he'd seen anything but soda in his hands? He coughed. "So, I've been thinking?"
"You have?"
"Yeah. 'Bout what you said to me, you know, when we were in Texas?"
"You brought me out, to a public place, to reminisce about my high school torment?" His voice cracked a little. He started to stand.
Morgan's hand shot out, clasped around his wrist. "No. Wait. It's not like that. I talked about it with -"
"You told someone? I said that because I trusted you to keep it a secret. I could have been fired for what I did, and you talked to someone about it. My god, who did you tell?" He shook.
Morgan ran a hand over his head. This was not going as planned. "Yeah, look, no specifics. I didn't give your name, but I needed to tell someone. I was going crazy trying to figure out how I could help."
His laugh was bitter. "You don't have to help. That wasn't why I told you. I don't need help, didn't ask for it, remember."
"Yeah, I know you didn't. You never do. You never ask for it even when you should. And you should have said something, damn it. You should have found me when you were getting so fucked up. I could have been there for you then." Morgan's frustration surprised him. He hadn't realized how much until he'd said it.
"Well, I didn't. And I'm not now. So what am I doing here? What are you?"
"Okay, so it's like this. I think you need to get it out of your system." Morgan swallowed more beer. Hell, the bottle was empty. He signalled for another one.
"Just like that? You want me to what? Talk it out?"
"No." Morgan watched skinny arms tighten over a skinny chest in a classic gesture of leave-me-alone. Long fingers clutched the strap of the ever present message bag, and he pictured what they would do clutching him. Where was his damned beer? "I don't think you should talk it out. You talk too much." The waitress dropped the bottle on the table. He didn't care how much he peeled out of his wallet for her. It was enough to know the drink was there and she was leaving. "I think someone - a lot of someones actually - did something terrible to you. And it lingers. I don't expect it'll ever go away."
"It hasn't yet," he whispered. "Even when I wish it could."
"So this is my thought. If you can't talk it out of your system, why not, umm, get it out a different way?" He was flushed, hot with embarrassment and desire and the need to make everything better, even if that meant making everything worse at the same time.
"What are you saying?"
He sighed, went back to rolling the bottle between his hands. "For a Ph.D, you can be pretty stupid. Come home with me. Tonight. Right now. Whenever. Be the aggressor. Get the jock. Bang me on the football field, or, you know, a wall or something, and move on with your life." He forced his eyes to meet the shocked look he was receiving across the table. "Maybe it's dumb, but I just thought, Reid, you gotta know, I'd like it. And it might help?"