Prompt 66: Rain
Title: Rain
Author: Fireness
Beta: None
Characters (Pairings): Reid, Morgan, Hotch (R/M)
Rating: FRT?
Warning(s): Implied slash, angsty!Reid, alcohol
Spoilers: None
Summary: “Okay, now I know you’re not okay because that was your cue to start quoting annual rain statistics and whatnot.”
Word Count: 1,234 (0_0)
Author’s Notes: This is a prequel to my previous ficlet Dinner. Sets up the background for that one. Not really sure about the quality of this one, though; I wrote it in two sittings, and I don't think the transition was very smooth. Also, not sure if the last bit with Hotch was strictly necessary, but I liked it, so it stayed.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Criminal Minds, nor Spencer and Derek. More’s the pity.
Prompt 66: Rain (Spencer/Derek)
“Hey, kid, there you are. The team’s been lookin’ for ya. Rain’s comin’ down pretty hard still, and it doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up, so looks like we’re stuck here for at least the night.”
Reid’s only response was to jerk his head slightly in what might or might not have been a nod.
“Who woulda thought it could actually rain this much in San Antonio?”
This time a noncommittal grunt.
Morgan sighed and dropped heavily into the hard plastic seat next to his colleague. “Okay, now I know you’re not okay because that was your cue to start quoting annual rain statistics and whatnot.”
Reid shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.”
Morgan looked hard at him for a moment; he looked like crap, though the older man had a feeling he himself did not look much better. Eyes dark and haunted, whole body a picture of despair as he slumped over the restaurant table in the middle of the airport, both hands clutching a tall glass of something dark. “What’re you drinking?”
He barely raised his head. “Coke.”
Suppressing a laugh, “You are twenty-one, aren’t you?”
Finally, a glare. “Yes. I just didn’t really want to get drunk tonight.”
“Fair enough. C’mon.”
“Where’re we going?”
“We’re gonna go not get drunk back at the hotel. Much more comfortable there, and it’s about time somebody on the team actually used one of the beds for sleeping on, instead of as a desk or a coat rack.”
Reid fidgeted, half rising from his chair. “I don’t think I could sleep even if I were tired. When I close my eyes, I just keep seeing…”
Morgan snagged his partner’s coat, held it out for him. “Happens,” he told the young genius bracingly.
He seemed to consider that for a moment. “How exactly are we going to get back to the hotel if it’s pouring hard enough to ground all air traffic?”
“I lived in Chicago, remember? I’m used to driving in all sorts of weather conditions.”
“It’s not so much your driving I’m worried about as all the other Texans on the road who maybe aren’t so used to it.”
A quick laugh. “I’ll be sure to watch out for the natives. Luckily it’s not too far to the hotel. Only, what, a mile?”
“Three and a half, actually, but that’s still not too bad, I suppose.”
“Better than it could be, anyway. I’mma call Gideon and let him know. Him and Hotch and the others are probably already back at the hotel.”
They didn’t say another word to each other until they were back at the hotel, holed up in the room they were supposed to have shared while on this case, though Morgan could probably count on two fingers the number of times they had actually been in the room together over the last five days. Something in Reid seemed to have given way again, and he was once more slumped in on himself, the haunted look back. Morgan’s heart ached for him; he came up beside the younger man, placed his hand on the bony shoulder. “It could have been worse. A lot worse.”
“But it didn’t even have this bad in the first place. We could have…”
“What?” He shrugged out of his coat, tossed it on the standard hotel dresser, tossed himself on the closest bed. “What could we possibly have done differently?”
Reid shifted to sit at the end of the same bed, perching on the edge like some giant, gangly, awkward bird, hands fidgeting nervously on his knees. “We had all the pieces,” he said. “We just….weren’t fast enough putting them together.”
“And by ‘we,’ you really mean….”
“Me.”
“Exactly. You’re blaming yourself for something you had no control over.”
“But that’s just it,” Reid insisted. “I did have control over it. I could have-”
“No, you couldn’t have. Let’s be realistic here: we’re all only human in the end. Okay, so you have a higher-than-average IQ. A lot higher, in fact. That doesn’t mean you should be Superman or whatever and have all the answers immediately. You’re barely more than a kid, Spencer, and even you have your limitations. We all do. We- I-” He stopped, unsure of what else he could possibly say to ease the young man’s mind.
“She didn’t have to die.” He swiped angrily at his cheeks, dashing the telltale tears from them, hating the way his voice cracked and betrayed him.
Morgan sighed. “No, she didn’t. None of them had to. Okay, so we couldn’t save her. We still saved countless other women from suffering the same fate, didn’t we?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“No buts, kid. If nothing else, just remember that I have seniority over you, so what I say goes, and I say if you only focus on the negative, you won’t last long in this occupation.”
“I’m in way over my head. I don’t know why I thought going into the FBI would be such a great idea.”
“Because without you, not only would Teresa Knowlton be dead right now, we’d still have no clue who the Unsub was, and he’d still be out roaming the streets, probably picking up his next victim right this minute.”
Reid scoffed. “You guys would have figured it out.”
“Yeah, maybe two or three days from now.”
“Gideon-”
“Is an amazing profiler, but his brain simply doesn’t have the same capacity yours does for holding information and making connections. None of ours does.”
Reid seemed to consider this for a moment. At last he sighed. “I think my brain is officially mush. I can’t think straight anymore.” He glanced to his right. “Think Hotch’d kill us if we emptied out the minibar?”
Morgan snickered. “No, but I doubt the Section Chief will be too pleased. If she complains, though, she can suck my-”
Reid was already crouching in front of the miniature refrigerator, sorting through the various bottles, completely ignoring his companion. “Any preferences?”
“Whatever’s strongest. You’re not the only one who needs to decompress.”
“30.53.”
“Proof? That’s actually really weak, Reid.”
“No, the average annual rainfall in San Antonio is 30.53 inches, though the actual amount varies widely from year to year. One year it can be less than twenty inches, and the next it’ll be over forty.”
“Hurry up with that alcohol. I’ve had enough of your statistics in the last few days that I don’t want to hear anymore until I’m thoroughly trashed.”
The next morning, Morgan woke to the feel of Spencer trying to quietly wriggle out from under the muscular arm that held him in place. He lay still, keeping his breathing even and steady as the young man succeeded, and started foraging for his clothes that had been strewn all over the small room. He dressed, not even bothering to take a brief shower, and slipped out. Twenty minutes later, it was Hotch who was pounding on his door, demanding that he be ready to go in half an hour’s time, or he’d be left behind. He responded in the affirmative, not letting an ounce of his disappointment show, not even to himself.
“Here,” Hotch said as he met with the others down in the lobby; he handed him a couple of painkillers. “Reid said you’ll be hung over this morning?”
Morgan smiled and took them dutifully, though truth be told, he didn’t really need them.