Criminal Minds, Morgan/Reid - "Blur."
this. well. alexandriabrown held a gun to my head and made me watch* "Profiler, Profiled," aka the ep in which Morgan is the muffinest muffin ever to muffin, and I got a tiny bit of fic in my head. it's 1200-ish words of post-ep pre-slash because Morgan/Reid is my OTP, 4eva. and I'm totally convinced that MGG was adopted and is sekritly a long-lost Hanson they couldn't afford to feed and still keep Tay.
so. I really need a "Criminal Minds" icon, man. I'm really glad that I can actually _watch_ this show, since I was afraid it was going to be too much like "L&O:SVU," which I cannot watch at all because of my job.
*by which I mean, gave me the ep after I whined at her for a month about wanting to see it. ENABLER!
Blur
Day one, back at the BAU. He didn't have any expectations of what it would be like; he was there to do his job, and he worked with professionals. The fact that the line between work and life had been blurred just a little bit more by the events in Chicago didn't change that fact - and none of them had to know that he'd spent twenty minutes in his car, just breathing, before he managed to make it into the building.
The truth was, nothing could ever be as difficult as living the past had been the first time around. _Re-living_ it didn't even come close.
The team, for the most part, gave him a comfortable berth. It was a gimme, and he knew it wasn't going to last very long and he wasn't going to want it to, but it was okay, he wasn't going to complain. It was going to take some time for them _and_ him to get back into whatever passed for normal around here, to go from profiled back to profiler, to ease back into doing what he was here for, what he was good at, what he needed. He'd almost, selfishly, hoped for a case right away, to hit the ground running, because it was always easier that way, to have to worry about someone else and try to get into the head of an unsub, but Hotch had pretty much told him he was riding a desk for as long as they could do without him. It was uncharacteristically quiet, anyway, and there was a nice pile of neglected paperwork with his name written all over it.
He sat, and read, and wrote, and drank coffee, for most of the morning, although it took a good two hours to stop straining to hear his name in every quiet conversation in proximity. He wasn't _that_ interesting, but that layer that had been so forcibly peeled away left him feeling distinctly vulnerable, put under the spotlight, and watched, even once he'd stepped away from the two-way glass. He didn't ever want that to happen again.
He'd finally settled into a routine - open file, skim, read, type, sip coffee - and had nearly managed to lose himself in a bit of normality when a still slightly over-sensitive tickle on the side of his head alerted him to the fact that he was being watched, steadily. His back stiffened, slightly, but he didn't so much as shift his eyes away from the file he was working on. "Something I can help you with?"
"Actually, yeah," Reid said, leaning forward, hands steepled on his desk. "I need your mom's phone number."
"Excuse me?" Morgan looked up, utterly unable to conceal his surprise. "What did you say?"
"Your mom," Reid said again. "I need her phone number. I forgot to ask for it when I was at her - at your - when we were in Chicago. Or, wait - does she have email? She must, right? Everyone does. I could just email her."
Morgan narrowed his eyes. "And just _why_ do you need my mother's phone number?"
"I wanted to thank her for the cake."
"You wanted to thank her for the cake." Morgan shifted away from his computer.
"Uhhuh."
"She gave you cake?"
Reid nodded. "Yeah."
"My mother gave you cake and you didn't say thank you?"
"No, well, yes, I did. For the cake that she fed me. I mean, the cake I had at her house," Reid said, hand gesticulating to better express his point in Reid-speak. "With her there. But then she gave me cake to take with me - "
"My mother gave you cake to take with you?"
"Yeah. And a sandwich." Reid tilted his head, slightly, a tangle of hair falling into his eyes, which he impatiently brushed away. "JJ said there's something about me that makes moms want to feed me."
"I can't imagine why," Morgan said, shaking his head.
"Anyway, I didn't find it until I was on the plane and then it was too late to say thanks and that's why I need your mom's phone number. Or email. She has email, right? Everybody has email. I could just email her."
"Yes, my mother has email, and no I'm not giving it to you. _Or_ her phone number." Morgan turned away from him, and turned back to his computer.
"Why not?" Reid frowned at him. "You want me to look like a bad guest to your mom?"
"You weren't a guest, you were an agent," Morgan said. "Hotch put you up to this, right?"
"Why would Hotch put me up to - hey," Reid said, snapping his fingers, "of course, he's probably got your mom's number already. I could just go ask him!"
He made it two steps away from his desk before Morgan caught his wrist in a tight grasp. "Don't," Morgan said.
"I just want to say thank you. I'm not trying to - "
"I'll call and tell her for you."
"I could ask Garcia. Or, hell, I could google her."
"But you won't," Morgan said, looking up at him, hand still curled around his wrist not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to convey the importance of what it was he was saying. "If it didn't matter what I think, you would have googled her already. You won't if I ask you not to, right?"
"No, I won't," Reid agreed, unable to fully conceal the disappointment in his eyes. "I like your mom."
"I'll tell her that, too," Morgan said, letting him go. Reid sat back down at his desk, and although Morgan could still feel himself being watched, he typed a few more words at the report on his screen, and tried to pretend his coffee wasn't ice-cold.
"Hotch didn't put me up to this," Reid said, finally.
"No?" Morgan said, still typing.
"No," Reid shook his head. "And when you call your mom? Tell her I will."
"You will what?" Morgan frowned at him.
"Just, tell her I will," Reid shrugged. "Something she asked me. She'll know what I mean."
"Reid," Morgan said, warily.
"It's not bad," Reid said, holding his hands up. "Just, something she asked me. I'm not getting all entangled in your personal life, really."
"Why doesn't it feel like that from where I'm sitting?"
"Probably because you're practically pre-determined to be hyper-sensitive to everything right now. I mean, come on, you were a suspect in a serial murder case. Everything's bound to feel a little off, right? That _is_ normal, for the situation."
"Thanks," Morgan said, voice heavy with irony.
"No problem." Reid pushed away from his desk again, industrial-sized travel mug at hand. "You want some?" he asked, pointing at Morgan, and then at the cup.
"No," Morgan said, automatically, and then stopped himself, "No, wait, yeah, I do, thanks."
Reid smiled at him, took his mug, and wandered off towards the never-ending fount of coffee.
Morgan watched him, shook his head, and went back to his typing, making a mental note to have a talk with his mom tonight, about these blurring lines.
so. I really need a "Criminal Minds" icon, man. I'm really glad that I can actually _watch_ this show, since I was afraid it was going to be too much like "L&O:SVU," which I cannot watch at all because of my job.
*by which I mean, gave me the ep after I whined at her for a month about wanting to see it. ENABLER!
Blur
Day one, back at the BAU. He didn't have any expectations of what it would be like; he was there to do his job, and he worked with professionals. The fact that the line between work and life had been blurred just a little bit more by the events in Chicago didn't change that fact - and none of them had to know that he'd spent twenty minutes in his car, just breathing, before he managed to make it into the building.
The truth was, nothing could ever be as difficult as living the past had been the first time around. _Re-living_ it didn't even come close.
The team, for the most part, gave him a comfortable berth. It was a gimme, and he knew it wasn't going to last very long and he wasn't going to want it to, but it was okay, he wasn't going to complain. It was going to take some time for them _and_ him to get back into whatever passed for normal around here, to go from profiled back to profiler, to ease back into doing what he was here for, what he was good at, what he needed. He'd almost, selfishly, hoped for a case right away, to hit the ground running, because it was always easier that way, to have to worry about someone else and try to get into the head of an unsub, but Hotch had pretty much told him he was riding a desk for as long as they could do without him. It was uncharacteristically quiet, anyway, and there was a nice pile of neglected paperwork with his name written all over it.
He sat, and read, and wrote, and drank coffee, for most of the morning, although it took a good two hours to stop straining to hear his name in every quiet conversation in proximity. He wasn't _that_ interesting, but that layer that had been so forcibly peeled away left him feeling distinctly vulnerable, put under the spotlight, and watched, even once he'd stepped away from the two-way glass. He didn't ever want that to happen again.
He'd finally settled into a routine - open file, skim, read, type, sip coffee - and had nearly managed to lose himself in a bit of normality when a still slightly over-sensitive tickle on the side of his head alerted him to the fact that he was being watched, steadily. His back stiffened, slightly, but he didn't so much as shift his eyes away from the file he was working on. "Something I can help you with?"
"Actually, yeah," Reid said, leaning forward, hands steepled on his desk. "I need your mom's phone number."
"Excuse me?" Morgan looked up, utterly unable to conceal his surprise. "What did you say?"
"Your mom," Reid said again. "I need her phone number. I forgot to ask for it when I was at her - at your - when we were in Chicago. Or, wait - does she have email? She must, right? Everyone does. I could just email her."
Morgan narrowed his eyes. "And just _why_ do you need my mother's phone number?"
"I wanted to thank her for the cake."
"You wanted to thank her for the cake." Morgan shifted away from his computer.
"Uhhuh."
"She gave you cake?"
Reid nodded. "Yeah."
"My mother gave you cake and you didn't say thank you?"
"No, well, yes, I did. For the cake that she fed me. I mean, the cake I had at her house," Reid said, hand gesticulating to better express his point in Reid-speak. "With her there. But then she gave me cake to take with me - "
"My mother gave you cake to take with you?"
"Yeah. And a sandwich." Reid tilted his head, slightly, a tangle of hair falling into his eyes, which he impatiently brushed away. "JJ said there's something about me that makes moms want to feed me."
"I can't imagine why," Morgan said, shaking his head.
"Anyway, I didn't find it until I was on the plane and then it was too late to say thanks and that's why I need your mom's phone number. Or email. She has email, right? Everybody has email. I could just email her."
"Yes, my mother has email, and no I'm not giving it to you. _Or_ her phone number." Morgan turned away from him, and turned back to his computer.
"Why not?" Reid frowned at him. "You want me to look like a bad guest to your mom?"
"You weren't a guest, you were an agent," Morgan said. "Hotch put you up to this, right?"
"Why would Hotch put me up to - hey," Reid said, snapping his fingers, "of course, he's probably got your mom's number already. I could just go ask him!"
He made it two steps away from his desk before Morgan caught his wrist in a tight grasp. "Don't," Morgan said.
"I just want to say thank you. I'm not trying to - "
"I'll call and tell her for you."
"I could ask Garcia. Or, hell, I could google her."
"But you won't," Morgan said, looking up at him, hand still curled around his wrist not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to convey the importance of what it was he was saying. "If it didn't matter what I think, you would have googled her already. You won't if I ask you not to, right?"
"No, I won't," Reid agreed, unable to fully conceal the disappointment in his eyes. "I like your mom."
"I'll tell her that, too," Morgan said, letting him go. Reid sat back down at his desk, and although Morgan could still feel himself being watched, he typed a few more words at the report on his screen, and tried to pretend his coffee wasn't ice-cold.
"Hotch didn't put me up to this," Reid said, finally.
"No?" Morgan said, still typing.
"No," Reid shook his head. "And when you call your mom? Tell her I will."
"You will what?" Morgan frowned at him.
"Just, tell her I will," Reid shrugged. "Something she asked me. She'll know what I mean."
"Reid," Morgan said, warily.
"It's not bad," Reid said, holding his hands up. "Just, something she asked me. I'm not getting all entangled in your personal life, really."
"Why doesn't it feel like that from where I'm sitting?"
"Probably because you're practically pre-determined to be hyper-sensitive to everything right now. I mean, come on, you were a suspect in a serial murder case. Everything's bound to feel a little off, right? That _is_ normal, for the situation."
"Thanks," Morgan said, voice heavy with irony.
"No problem." Reid pushed away from his desk again, industrial-sized travel mug at hand. "You want some?" he asked, pointing at Morgan, and then at the cup.
"No," Morgan said, automatically, and then stopped himself, "No, wait, yeah, I do, thanks."
Reid smiled at him, took his mug, and wandered off towards the never-ending fount of coffee.
Morgan watched him, shook his head, and went back to his typing, making a mental note to have a talk with his mom tonight, about these blurring lines.