(no subject)
a coda to 2x11, "sex, birth, death". i wedged about a month-and-a-half between this and "profiler, profiled". my response to the ending of this epsiode was: THANKS FOR SWEEPING IT UNDER THE RUG, CRIMINAL MINDS. call me curious. (warnings episode/series spoilers, discussion of necrophilia.)
talk, you
morgan/reid, r, 6240 words
Reid doesn't like the feel of blood on his hands, drying on the skin up his arms. Almost snaps his watchband, struggling to undo the buttons of his shirt cuffs. He pushes them back up to the crooks of his elbows and they itch. Scratches down his forearms. He's breathless and overwhelmed. It's not just someone else's blood; it's Nathan's blood. Reid doesn't know who's touching him. He turns away. There's sound in the distance.
Reid doesn't know what he thinks about it, but he knows that he thinks about it a lot. (In between putting together a profile for a PD unit in Massachusetts and planning his upcoming recruiting lecture with Hotch.) He could have stopped it sooner. Blood loss. He knew. He knew Nathan would do something to himself. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Headache between his eyes. (In between a briefing and bad coffee.)
Gideon's in his office. Reid knocks and walks in, hands in his pockets. It takes a few moments for Gideon to acknowledge him. He looks up at Reid blankly. Waiting.
"I'm going to visit Nathan Harris." Barely held in with a sigh. He gives Gideon an uneasy smile. Gideon has never given him a reason to hedge around anything. He cares enough.
Gideon leans back, hands behind his head. "Reid," he says, catching his gaze. "I don't think that's a good idea. You should give yourself time."
Reid swallows. "I thought maybe it would help me get closure? At least see how he's doing." He feels uncomfortable, even after all of this time. It's like he's done something wrong.
"If you want to know how he's doing, go see Garcia."
Garcia's hands are fast on her keyboard. "No, sweetie. I will not go into Nathan's hospital records for you."
Garcia turns in her chair to face him. She tucks his hair behind his ear. "We did what we could. He's somewhere safe and now the rest is up to him." Garcia smiles gently and it's still bright and red.
Reid feels responsible; he's just not going to say it out loud. Force of habit.
There are ten classifications of necrophiles. Right now, Nathan is a three. Reid knows that, if this escalates, he could be a nine. And that's when other people are in danger.
Nathan's mom calls Reid during lunch. He stops her before she can tell him anything. "It's," he says, hand up in the air. "He's getting help. I think that's enough for me."
Her silence on the other end is pointed, but understanding. She takes a deep breath like she's swallowing her words. "He's getting help." It sounds perfunctory and flat. Repeated. "But he still needs you. More than anyone else in that hospital. He's switched wards."
Reid finishes his lunch in Garcia's office. Her shoulder is warm underneath his cheek. She does her best to make it go away for a little while.
He doesn't get to control the problems that affect people. And knowing the facts and the studies and the statistics doesn't matter, either. There isn't a way to stop disease of the mind. There are only ways to subdue it. It doesn't go away. Never will.
"Garcia, do you ever think you know too much about other people?" Reid knows it's a painfully obvious question - it's Garcia's job to find things out about everyone at any given moment - but it's a question Reid's never asked her. And he wants to know.
She finishes her sip of coffee and puts the ceramic cup back down onto her desk. Reid watches the news monitor's reflection on her face.
"You aren't asking the obvious, are you, Dr. Reid?" The sound of her fingers tapping steadily on her keyboard is solid and safe. He shakes his head. "No, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Reid has no idea what she's working on. He thinks that maybe he should know. "Yeah, I think I'm a little too acquainted with the sickos in this world, but at the same time, I'm too acquainted with most of the people in this fair country. Even the nice, lovely ones have horrible secrets."
Reid nods. "Yeah." The story changes from one on the markets to something on a state banning certain literature in high schools. Reid isn't really paying attention. "I know it's obvious, but I know way too much about everyone and I keep wanting to know more when I shouldn't. It doesn't change things, doesn't stop things from happening."
"Don't," Garcia says, grabbing his knee. "Don't start doing that to yourself, honey." She takes a deep breath and lets Reid's hand go. "Saving even one life is not something that you can take away from yourself. No matter how horrible it was just to be in the same room as." She shudders. "You can't save everyone, but the people you do manage help, wow. Tell that to those assholes in high school." Garcia covers her mouth. Automatic reaction. "Didn't mean to cheapen that whole spiel there. Tell your mom," she says, correcting herself.
Reid ducks his head and shrugs. "I guess." But what about the people that I want to save most. He doesn't say that, but Garcia probably knows that he wants to. She's not a profiler, but she's perceptive in ways almost everyone else doesn't seem to be.
"You guess? What am I going to do with you, Spencer Reid?" She turns back to her monitors. More has always been expected of Reid.
"Hey, Reid. How about a drink? Just you and me?" Morgan asks. It's late and Reid's tired and the words are harder to read, but he'll just end up going home and sitting up until he forgets what he was thinking about otherwise. And that can take a long time.
He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. There's a pause before Reid's saying, "Yeah, I'd like that." He stands up uneasily from his desk and grabs his coat from his chair.
He's thinking about Nathan less. He's thinking about his mom more.
Reid forgot that it was Friday. The bar is crowded and he can hardly hear what Morgan's saying. They're sitting close together. He scans the room without interest.
"Long week, kid?" Their drinks just came. Morgan runs his pinky finger around the lip of the glass, not interested in it. It's just soda, anyways.
Reid looks down at his wine glass. Red. He rubs a hand over his eyes. "A little bit, yeah." He takes a drink. "Nathan Harris's mom called me."
Even with all of these people around, Morgan seems to hear him fine. Reid hasn't acquired that skill, yet. "Yeah? And?" he asks, raising his glass.
Reid looks down at the table. The scratched and peeling wood. He looks back up at Morgan. "He's getting help. I don't know how well he's responding to it, but it's something, right?" He drums his fingers against the base of his glass.
Morgan lets out a breathless laugh; shakes his head. "You're not supposed to be everything for him. Because, let me tell you, no matter what you say or what you do, he has to be the one to help himself."
Reid purses his lips. "That's what everyone says, but I still can't get it out of my head that I'm responsible." There's a group of girls standing near their table, but he can't hear their voices at all. The wine tastes bitter going down and the aftertaste is sweet on the back of his tongue.
"You can't get anything out of your head, genius. You gotta try and accept that it wasn't your fault that he did what he did. And quick, because it's taking you over." Morgan's glass is empty.
"How do you deal with it?" Reid asks.
Morgan shrugs. "Always weigh the good against the bad. You can't help everyone and you're just as important as any victim. Take care of yourself." Like that's easy with a job like this. Working on his degree. Worrying about his mom. It's a twenty-four hour day. Reid doesn't even fit into his own life anymore. The last swallow of his wine is numbing.
"I don't have time for myself. Just when I'm sleeping and even then." Nightmares. The glass is too warm in his hands. Sticky with fingerprints. "Always on call."
Morgan looks at him. It's almost sad. "You'll figure it out, Reid. You're going to have to sooner or later." Morgan sits up straighter in his chair, throwing something off. "Wanna get out of here?" he asks, hands already going for his coat.
Reid shakes his head. "Not really. I don't really want to be by myself even if I'm just going to end up sitting here." He lets out what was supposed to be a laugh. He looks away from Morgan.
"Come and hang out with me. Discover the joys of late-night TV." Morgan stands up and fixes the lapels of his coat.
Reid looks up at him, face twisted. "Sure you don't want to go home with a girl?"
"Hey," Morgan says, finger pointed at him. "This was not a date, pretty boy. It was friends taking care of friends."
Reid knew what schizophrenia was when he was eight. It's taken him almost twenty years to understand how its symptoms manifest, progress. What it does to the only person that he loves. All that understanding doesn't help his mom. It helps him and he feels guilty, but that small thrum of comfort under his skin is worth it. It goes cold when he sees her.
He sat in her room after they took her away. One of them - Michael - told him that in cases like these, he should wait until they get her settled. A week, two weeks, a month. It depends. Her chair was still warm, notes fresh on the paper of her notebook. He ran his fingers down the page; not reading, just feeling. She used archival ink so the words wouldn't smear or fade away.
Reid hates that memory. He hates the feeling he gets, like it's already happening to him. Reid's scared of the dark, sure, but there's ways around that. Genetics can't be modified. He's proud to be Diana Reid's son and to know all of the things that she's taught him. That will never change, but the fear is there. That's the worst.
"Honey," Garcia says, the word sweet in her mouth. "I know that the last time we went out that Horrible Thing happened, but what do you say? Coworkers's Night Out?" The glow from her computer screen makes her smile blue.
Reid tries to make sense of the code on-screen, fingers tapping against his jaw. "Me and Morgan already did that. Out drinking at a very loud bar." His voice is doing that droning thing and he knows it.
"Oh, like a date. Two attractive men. Out. Together. Hm." The black and white text flits across the screen way too fast for even Reid to try and keep track of it. He sits back.
Reid coughs. "Is that what you are? Tech analyst and pervert?"
"Not a pervert, an optimist. It's a full-time job, sweetie." The code disappears from the monitor and the surrounding ones go black. She turns to Reid. "He's there for you because he cares about you, not because he thinks he has to be. Morgan's secretly the really, really good guy."
She works in episodes. He can deal with almost all of it and years of practice have taught him how to gauge what to say and when to leave. The last thing Reid wants is for anyone to forget her. It's why he writes. He'll never forget a single one of her details - every book she's read, the perfume she would wear when she remembered. Reid knows that it's an irrational fear (he will never ever forget anything, let alone anything about her). He just doesn't want her to wake up someday and not remember.
All of the things he is. All of the things she is.
It's been a while since his last visit. Her smile when he left her was warm and soft and matronly. That part makes him ache. It's such a big contrast to her panic and fever dreams. Reid can feel when she's fading. She's not bad, but she's not okay. The scale is always sliding. Her doctor's face goes from welcoming to grim faster, now. He could barely sleep when he got back to Quantico. How Reid gets any rest at all is beyond him.
The next two weeks are slow. They get nothing more than cases to advise on - thick stacks of files piling up on everyone's desk. It's a relief. His shoulders relax a little. Just a little, but it's enough for now.
Reid doesn't even realise that it's after five when Morgan taps his fingers against the top of his desk. His cheek is warm from where his hand was resting. He makes a tired noise. "Yeah?" he asks, back muscles pulling perfectly up and down. They're all getting restless.
"You going home any time soon, Reid?" he asks. There's a smile, but there's also concern in his body language. "That a yes or no?"
Reid inhales, lets the air stay for too long in his lungs. His exhale is loud. "Yes." He clears his throat. "Yeah, I'm going home. I think I can make the 6:10 train." He starts feeling around his desk for his things.
Morgan adjusts the gun on his belt. "No, you won't. I'm driving you." Reid looks up at him. He doesn't read what's there. "Non-negotiable."
"That doesn't really work with me. And tackling me would be counter-productive." He catches the flash of Morgan's smile as he puts his files into his bag. "It's fine, really. I just need some time alone, I think."
Morgan looks disappointed. He shrugs. "You spend too much time in that head of yours, you might just get lost." He looks down at Reid. "You know where I am if you need me." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, eyes dragging upwards.
Morgan's walk out is a little too casual. A little too slow. Intentional.
Reid knows that this isn't the right time. He finally fell asleep late after midnight and now he's up again. A quarter to four. Morgan would kill him if he were that kind of person. Reid may know his home number for a reason.
He keeps seeing Nathan's face and hearing stories his mom would read to him synched together. Her voice drifting off to a different place, Reid still tucked against her side. He woke up without her there and he can feel all of the 2446 miles between Quantico and Las Vegas. Alone.
"Morgan?" He waits until Morgan makes some sign that he's awake.
He hears the rustle of sheets and a whispered, "Fuck." He coughs. "Yeah, kid?"
"I haven't slept properly in about three weeks."
Morgan has never tried to fix it in just ten minutes.
The heat from the paper cups Reid's holding is making his hands feel tight and dry. He carefully navigates his way through the Bureau. He feels sleep all of the way up his back. It's a good feeling. Resolved.
"Briefing in ten," JJ says, passing by in a whirl. She smells like sharp perfume and baby powder. It hurts Reid's head. He feels the headache behind his eyes, but he's also aware of the restlessness in his body. He flips the page on his notepad and heads to the conference room.
Prentiss is already settled in, coffee hot beside her. She gives him a tight smile and leans her head against her hand. "You got a headache, too?" he asks, taking a seat beside her. The smell of coffee makes him dizzy.
Clearly, Prentiss feels the same way. "Yeah," she says, cringing. "Hey, JJ, coffee?" She asks, pushing the cup across the table. JJ smiles warmly and takes a sip. Prentiss looks away.
Reid checks his watch. The rest of the team should be here. "Just us?" he asks, voice unnecessarily low. He was looking forward to the routine of working with everyone. Feeling rushed and motivated.
Prentiss drops her hand down onto Reid's. It's cold. "It's just you and me," she says right as JJ breaks in with, "Hotch doesn't think the case requires the team's full attention right now," before Prentiss can say anything else.
With the way he and Prentiss are feeling, it might.
The file is thin and the flight is long. Idaho Falls, Idaho. There's an arsonist setting large-scale fires that appear to be escalating. After hours. There's only been a handful of deaths considering the venues, but threats have been made promising that more would occur.
Gideon probably suggested to Hotch that Reid get out of the office and Prentiss still needs the practice. Terrorists are definitely not their everyday. He's not saying he isn't thankful. These cases get him away from himself: Reid gets to focus on people who really need his help.
"Reid," Prentiss says, her voice cutting through his thoughts. "Reid, you okay? You look totally out of it." He hasn't known Prentiss for very long, but her concern is genuine. It's in her eyes when she wants it to be.
He blinks, sitting up straighter. He wants to just brush her off and say yes, he is. Reid doesn't, though. "I've just been worried about my mom." He bites down on his tongue. Prentiss doesn't know. She probably should, but it'll take a little too much out of Reid to explain it all.
Prentiss lets out a sigh. "Oh god, I know what you mean. Ever since I started with the BAU, my mother won't return my calls. It's hard to focus on so much when it seems to mean so little. I can't even really care." But it's clear that it still bothers her. She slaps her hands down onto her thighs. "Oh, that was rude of me, Reid. Just started spouting off about my own problems."
Reid nods. "Guess it's a common problem for a lot of BAU agents. Actually, it's more common for children to have deep-rooted issues with their father rather than with their mother. And some of us just get lucky and have both." Reid opens the case file in his lap again, breaking eye contact with Prentiss.
"Do you want to," Prentiss stops short. "No, never mind. The last thing you probably want is a coworker who pries." She gives Reid a self-depreciating smile.
Reid feels like laughing. "What do you think Morgan does? And Garcia? Oh man, even Hotch." There's light in her face when she looks back up at him. "It's not that," Reid says. "It a long story. And not really a good one to tell." He's trying to make it clear that next to no one really knows. No bias, just survival.
Prentiss nods. "I know exactly what you mean. I'll complain about my mother, but I don't actually tell anyone why I'm complaining about her." She lets out a sigh. "Parents, right?"
Something like that.
Reid's doing a quick, small-scale geological profile of the locations where the fires were set when his phone rings. He picks it up automatically. "Reid," Morgan says. "What's the cube root of one twenty-five?"
"Five," Reid says. He circles two of the sites in bright red. "Wait, what?"
Morgan laughs and Reid pictures his smile. His desk. The way he sits in his chair with his feet up. "Not important." He hears paper being shuffled. "You got a letter. Nathan Harris. Thought maybe you should know."
The name barely registers at first as Reid's asking, "Why were you looking through my mail?" Reid connects another three streets together with black, the arsonist seemingly the fondest of it. Nathan Harris runs through his head again. The feeling rises up slowly. The map distracts him. Morgan distracts him.
"Hand-delivered to the BAU. His mom. What, you really think I'm that invested in your government reports? I can just read my own." He doesn't wait for Reid. "She looks pretty good. Like maybe it's working."
Reid's shoulders loosen. He smiles quietly down at his work. "Thanks, Morgan." He catches Prentiss looking at him from the corner of his eye as she walks back into the conference room they're working in.
He can see Morgan shrugging. "Hey, I care about you, Reid. We all do." Prentiss sets a cup of coffee down in front of him followed by a handful of sugar packets. Real sugar.
The rest of their time in Idaho goes by quickly. He and Prentiss present the profile and help to narrow down the suspect pool. The PD has a strong lead on a suspect by the time they're taking off. He feels warm.
He writes his letter on the plane, letting himself get distracted by Prentiss's enthusiastic retellings of her favourite books. She looks up from turning a page. She must catch who he's addressing on the paper because she's saying, "Tell her I say hi."
Reid takes in her expression and relaxed body. The way she feels comfortable with him, right now. Reid writes it in as he last line. He kicks off his shoes and settles into his seat.
He slips Nathan's letter into his bag on his way out. Everyone's already left for the night. Prentiss waits up for him.
There are a lot of words filling up Reid's apartment; ideas, theories, stories, and lives. If he were a more imaginative person, it might be overwhelming. Reid deals with too much reality for that to happen. It's there and then it's not there, Nathan writes. It's an itch. The words stumble slowly into his mind. Not entered as blocks of text. Reid pulls at his tie. Too tight at the base of his throat.
Four bodies come up just as clearly as the days he saw them. The hair, the blood stain across the dress. Nathan turning and running back into the crowd. Reid would be just as horrified. Alone. Reid can't be the only one to help him.
"So, what'd the letter say? Is that boy going to leave our doctor alone and start bothering his own?" According to Reid, it's way too early for him to even be thinking about why everyone seems to know, but this is Garcia. He'll go where she goes.
Reid takes a deep breath and lets out a laugh. "It's a little more serious than that, Garcia." He looks over her shoulder at the aerial view of a dump site. This is probably not a good time for this conversation. Hotch is waiting for these pictures.
"Yeah? How serious is it? Serious enough for Morgan to lie about Nathan's mom bringing it in? Please. He peeled the stamp off with the help of yours truly," Garcia says. Her fingertips hover in front of her mouth. She's grinning. And it has nothing to do with interstates and cedar forests.
"What?" Reid asks, walking over to the printer. The pictures are burnt onto the paper using a xerographic printing process. Morgan doesn't do things like that for Reid. Or for anyone, really.
Garcia spins to face him, her skirts flaring out. "He just wants you to relax. But, it also kind of looks like my favourite muscular son-of-a-gun has a crush. And on a certain genius who can't match his socks. What is your IQ, anyways?" She makes no move to even begin to disguise her gleefulness. Weirdly intimidating. "Honey, did you hear what I said?"
Reid doesn't even think before he's saying, "Of course." She's probably just fucking with him, but that's not like Garcia. "But I probably just heard you wrong." Ink from the printed pictures smears across Reid's hands.
There's another letter in Morgan's hands when Reid comes in to work the next morning. He'll admit that it ruins his day. Just when he started moving on.
He tucks the fourth, fifth, and sixth ones into the drawer of his desk. Prentiss carefully avoids looking, but Morgan raises his eyebrow and presses his fingers to the back of Reid's neck as he passes by.
Morgan drops a cup of coffee down onto Reid's desk on his way back from the break room. "Maybe me and you should go and talk to Gideon, yeah?" Prentiss offers her own encouraging look over the space between their desks.
Reid sips his coffee, considering. "Yeah, okay."
Morgan makes him bring Nathan's letters. The last two aren't even opened. He gives them to Morgan and follows him to Gideon's office. He really has no idea what Morgan's up to at this point; Reid doesn't really care. He just doesn't want to feel tormented by that case anymore. He wants to move forward.
"Gideon," Morgan says, dropping the letters down onto his desk, fanning out over his work. "We need to talk." Gideon looks down slowly, sliding his reading glasses off. He turns the envelopes over.
"Well, it seems that me and Spencer need to talk. They are addressed to him, aren't they?" Gideon's words seem harsh, but Reid knows they aren't. The look Gideon pins Reid with is one years of mentoring has familiarised him with. "What do we need to talk about, Spencer?"
Reid swallows thickly. "Uh, Nathan Harris? He's been sending me letters and generally refusing help from his own doctor. Basically, he won't let himself be helped by anyone else but me." He coughs out a laugh. "It's making me relive that night over and over again. I can't help him like this." He can almost feel Morgan's hand on his back, anchoring him. "I was almost past it."
Gideon thumbs one of the open envelopes, but he doesn't seem interested in reading the letter inside. "Then you should stop." Something inside Morgan seems to tighten. Reid ignores it. Gideon gets these kinds of things. "Maybe you should go visit him. Take Morgan with you."
Morgan makes a disbelieving noise. "So, it's just going to be that easy? This kid tried to kill himself. Reid saved his life. And now he needs Reid to fix it, too?" Reid can only watch on with curiosity.
"Did you bring him here because you expected me to say something else?" Reid knows that Gideon knows that Morgan has a hard time reading people when he's angry. It's the same for all of them, really, but Morgan already has a hard time understanding Gideon sometimes.
Morgan squeezes the back of his neck. He drops his hand down to his side, a staccato off of his hip. "No, I didn't. It's not that easy, though, Gideon."
Gideon spreads his hands out in front of himself. "I never said it would be."
"You don't have to do this. You didn't have to come with me," Reid says, tucking his hair behind his ear. He pulls his coat closer to his body as he looks up at the hospital. Nathan is somewhere in all of those windows, reflecting back the night.
Morgan shrugs. "Some things we shouldn't do alone." The sweat on his skin looks cold. Reid can see himself touching there. He looks away.
They're given Nathan's ward and room number after an anxious wait behind other visitors. They have an hour. Reid can barely concentrate; not paying attention when Morgan tries to talk to him.
"You gonna be okay, kid?" Morgan asks, right beside his ear. In Reid's space. The elevator climbs the floors slowly.
Reid nods quickly. "Yeah, why shouldn't I be?" The blood rushes to the surface of his skin. Help, failure. Those women in magazines covered with cuts and bruises and lacerations. He doesn't get it - doesn't know necrophilia well enough - but there are people who do. Nathan needs to know that. Reid scratches at his wrist. He winces into Morgan when his nails press too hard. Morgan's hand comes up to his chest.
The elevator bell goes. Reid concentrates on the comforting pressure against his sternum. "Time to face your fears."
Nathan is sitting up in bed with a book in his hands. There are more stacked around the room; fiction, criminal investigation, comic books. His choices remind Reid of himself. He takes a deep breath to quiet the feeling rising up inside of him. The walk through the ward already had it going.
"Dr. Reid?" Nathan asks, looking up at him with clouded eyes. He's not surprised. The hairs on the back of Reid's neck stand up when Nathan's gaze doesn't weaken. Morgan's shadow falls down to the floor beside his.
Reid forces a smile and walks up to the bed, keeping distance between them. "Hi, Nathan. I got your letters." He sits down. "You look better." Morgan hovers by the window, carefully not paying attention to them. "But I'm not really sure why. You don't seem to want anyone here to help you."
Nathan folds the book over his thigh. Wise Blood by Flannery O'Connor. A book about a man trying to start a church. Faith. "They don't know how to help me. And if they do, how will I be able to tell if it it's working, anyways?" He shrugs and crosses his arms across his chest. He's wanted to say that for a long time.
"You can't really measure the progress of the mind." There's scarred skin down Nathan's forearms. It's angry and red, but most of all - it's new. Only two or three small and shallow cuts. They were to get off. Reid reminds himself that Nathan is going to struggle, especially if he's trying to deal with this alone. He looks back up at Nathan's face. "And that helps?"
Nathan doesn't meet his eyes. Like that night in the church. "Why didn't you write me back?" His voice is small and his words run together easily. "It's been six weeks." The disappointment is obvious, though. Reid feels it in himself. He shouldn't.
Morgan is watching them, reserving judgement. He probably wants to say a lot of things. Some helpful (he's a kid, yeah, but he's taking advantage of Reid) and some not. He won't, though, because this is between Reid and Nathan. Reid appreciates it.
"It was hard for me, too. That case. You." He gives Nathan a weak smile. It's true. "You needing me."
"But you guys see stuff like that all the time," Nathan says. His voice isn't a whisper now. Rising and warbling. "I'm nothing special." He's avoiding what Reid's really talking about.
Reid can almost hear Morgan's, "No, we don't," over his own. "Sure, we get involved with cases, but not like this. I haven't stopped recalling those murders since they happened. Because of you." His voice whisper-quiet.
"And with a mind like that," Morgan cuts in, "you better believe he didn't miss a single thing." He walks away from the window and towards Reid and Nathan. The air is still between them. Morgan watches Nathan carefully. He's secretly a really, really good guy.
Nathan sighs. "Why are you here, then? To tell me to leave you alone?" Reid already feels like the worst person in the world. Morgan's here to remind him that he's not.
"No," Reid says. He clasps his hands together tightly in his lap. "But I think you need to start trusting the people here. They can help you more than I can. What I do will only remind you of what you could be. Nathan, you can come closer to finding a balance. You have a mom who loves you and people here who want to help you. I can't be the only one here for you. Because I can tell you all about why people are the people they are and I don't think you should know. It gives you a chance."
Reid's never necessarily been the best at this, but he thinks he's doing all right. Morgan looks like he thinks so, too. There's warmness there that Reid doesn't think he was aware of before. He doesn't even realise Nathan's talking at first.
"If you think so," he says. "You're the special agent and everything." He waves his hand out towards the window like he doesn't care. He does. And Reid does, but neither of them are going to get anywhere like this.
Reid shakes his head. "No, I'm you're friend. He's the supervisory special agent. What, with his gun and tough demeanour." Nathan lets out a quiet laugh.
"Hey, you carry a gun, too, Reid," Morgan says, straight-faced, before breaking into a grin. Reid turns his attention back to Nathan.
"When you need me, I'll be here, but trust the people closest to you. I've figured out that it works better than you think it will." He puts his hand on Nathan's shoulder. "I'm serious," Reid says as he stands up.
Nathan picks the book back up again. The spine stretches out between his hands. "Okay, Dr. Reid."
"I'm not going to say no to a phone call every once in a while. Just ask Morgan here." He slides his hands into his pockets and ignores the way Morgan's pretty much scoffing at him. Reid feels a little more comfortable now.
They get out of the hospital. The dark outside doesn't seem as dark. It never really did anyways, with the light pollution. Reid's usually asleep or wired when he's driving at night. He's either about to apprehend an unsub or has apprehended an unsub. Or, he's going home. He curls into himself, feeling sleep anchoring him outside of consciousness. It's nice.
Morgan is watching the road, waiting. The traffic is moving erratically. Morgan doesn't seem to mind that much. He turns his body towards Morgan's in his seat.
"Hey, don't let me hold you back from sleeping, Reid. It's still going to be a little while before home." Morgan's not concerned about it. "You did good in there."
Reid nods heavily. "I think I'm starting to realise that maintaining my own sanity is just as important as maintaining anyone else's."
He falls asleep thinking about that.
Morgan nudges his shoulder, waking Reid up to the blue-black darkness surrounding them. "This is your place," Morgan says. Both of his hands loosely grip the steering wheel.
The lights outside of Reid's apartment building have always been suspect. His landlord hasn't replaced the lightbulbs in the foyer in months and the only streetlights that are nearby have burned out. It bothers him more than he lets on.
Reid sits up, rubs at his eyes. He checks the clock; he's been out of it for longer than he would have guessed. "You want to come up? I can make more drinkable coffee than the BAU and the hospital. A thank-you." He gestures his hand out towards the nothings in the dark.
Morgan considers, his tongue pressed into the inner-corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I will. But, Reid, you don't need to thank me. It's what we do for each other. Family, right?" He reaches out for Reid's shoulder, thumb resting against the bare skin of his neck. Reid feels something in his stomach jump. Family. He gets out of the car. Morgan follows.
The walk up to the building feels like it's been slowed down and it isn't just him. Morgan's right there. He looks for his keys in his bag to distract himself. He feels Morgan's hand on his back. Reid stops. "Morgan," Reid starts, but he can't finish.
Morgan's mouth is soft and warm (and if Reid's being honest, exactly what he would have expected). He might force people up against walls and yeah, he carries a gun to work (Reid does, too!), but that doesn't translate in this. The feeling in Reid's stomach flares. He kisses back.
Morgan pulls away and Reid doesn't follow. "That wasn't really what I wanted to do there," Morgan says, scratching at the back of his neck. "There's usually at least some kind of date first." Morgan is apologising. To Reid.
"A pre-requisite? Four years at the Bureau hasn't been enough?" Reid knows what that warmth meant. That comfort. All of it. Morgan's hands are still pressed tightly into Reid's back. He smiles to himself.
"Kid, I may like you, but I will not let you disgrace the values my mom taught me. I'm serious."
Reid laughs, muffles it against his shoulder. "So, holding off on the coffee, then?" Morgan's fingers find their way up his back to the hair at the nape of Reid's neck.
"Yeah."
Writing to his mom is engrained in Reid. He has a notebook that he keeps in his bag. When they're on a case, Reid writes throughout the day so that he doesn't forget to do it at night, her voice telling him to sleep (like he would). Whether it's two in the morning or twelve noon, Reid always finds a place to post it. He does it to feel close to her.
Even with her medication and her ticks, she's still his mom. He doesn't like to see her at her worst. It's like they say to the families: remember her at her best. She's brilliant and it's the reason that Reid is, too. Her best qualities are his best qualities. Schizophrenia is genetic, but so are all of these other traits.
He can't be afraid of himself if he's not afraid of her.
talk, you
morgan/reid, r, 6240 words
Reid doesn't like the feel of blood on his hands, drying on the skin up his arms. Almost snaps his watchband, struggling to undo the buttons of his shirt cuffs. He pushes them back up to the crooks of his elbows and they itch. Scratches down his forearms. He's breathless and overwhelmed. It's not just someone else's blood; it's Nathan's blood. Reid doesn't know who's touching him. He turns away. There's sound in the distance.
Reid doesn't know what he thinks about it, but he knows that he thinks about it a lot. (In between putting together a profile for a PD unit in Massachusetts and planning his upcoming recruiting lecture with Hotch.) He could have stopped it sooner. Blood loss. He knew. He knew Nathan would do something to himself. Pinches the bridge of his nose. Headache between his eyes. (In between a briefing and bad coffee.)
Gideon's in his office. Reid knocks and walks in, hands in his pockets. It takes a few moments for Gideon to acknowledge him. He looks up at Reid blankly. Waiting.
"I'm going to visit Nathan Harris." Barely held in with a sigh. He gives Gideon an uneasy smile. Gideon has never given him a reason to hedge around anything. He cares enough.
Gideon leans back, hands behind his head. "Reid," he says, catching his gaze. "I don't think that's a good idea. You should give yourself time."
Reid swallows. "I thought maybe it would help me get closure? At least see how he's doing." He feels uncomfortable, even after all of this time. It's like he's done something wrong.
"If you want to know how he's doing, go see Garcia."
Garcia's hands are fast on her keyboard. "No, sweetie. I will not go into Nathan's hospital records for you."
Garcia turns in her chair to face him. She tucks his hair behind his ear. "We did what we could. He's somewhere safe and now the rest is up to him." Garcia smiles gently and it's still bright and red.
Reid feels responsible; he's just not going to say it out loud. Force of habit.
There are ten classifications of necrophiles. Right now, Nathan is a three. Reid knows that, if this escalates, he could be a nine. And that's when other people are in danger.
Nathan's mom calls Reid during lunch. He stops her before she can tell him anything. "It's," he says, hand up in the air. "He's getting help. I think that's enough for me."
Her silence on the other end is pointed, but understanding. She takes a deep breath like she's swallowing her words. "He's getting help." It sounds perfunctory and flat. Repeated. "But he still needs you. More than anyone else in that hospital. He's switched wards."
Reid finishes his lunch in Garcia's office. Her shoulder is warm underneath his cheek. She does her best to make it go away for a little while.
He doesn't get to control the problems that affect people. And knowing the facts and the studies and the statistics doesn't matter, either. There isn't a way to stop disease of the mind. There are only ways to subdue it. It doesn't go away. Never will.
"Garcia, do you ever think you know too much about other people?" Reid knows it's a painfully obvious question - it's Garcia's job to find things out about everyone at any given moment - but it's a question Reid's never asked her. And he wants to know.
She finishes her sip of coffee and puts the ceramic cup back down onto her desk. Reid watches the news monitor's reflection on her face.
"You aren't asking the obvious, are you, Dr. Reid?" The sound of her fingers tapping steadily on her keyboard is solid and safe. He shakes his head. "No, that would be too easy, wouldn't it?" Reid has no idea what she's working on. He thinks that maybe he should know. "Yeah, I think I'm a little too acquainted with the sickos in this world, but at the same time, I'm too acquainted with most of the people in this fair country. Even the nice, lovely ones have horrible secrets."
Reid nods. "Yeah." The story changes from one on the markets to something on a state banning certain literature in high schools. Reid isn't really paying attention. "I know it's obvious, but I know way too much about everyone and I keep wanting to know more when I shouldn't. It doesn't change things, doesn't stop things from happening."
"Don't," Garcia says, grabbing his knee. "Don't start doing that to yourself, honey." She takes a deep breath and lets Reid's hand go. "Saving even one life is not something that you can take away from yourself. No matter how horrible it was just to be in the same room as." She shudders. "You can't save everyone, but the people you do manage help, wow. Tell that to those assholes in high school." Garcia covers her mouth. Automatic reaction. "Didn't mean to cheapen that whole spiel there. Tell your mom," she says, correcting herself.
Reid ducks his head and shrugs. "I guess." But what about the people that I want to save most. He doesn't say that, but Garcia probably knows that he wants to. She's not a profiler, but she's perceptive in ways almost everyone else doesn't seem to be.
"You guess? What am I going to do with you, Spencer Reid?" She turns back to her monitors. More has always been expected of Reid.
"Hey, Reid. How about a drink? Just you and me?" Morgan asks. It's late and Reid's tired and the words are harder to read, but he'll just end up going home and sitting up until he forgets what he was thinking about otherwise. And that can take a long time.
He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. There's a pause before Reid's saying, "Yeah, I'd like that." He stands up uneasily from his desk and grabs his coat from his chair.
He's thinking about Nathan less. He's thinking about his mom more.
Reid forgot that it was Friday. The bar is crowded and he can hardly hear what Morgan's saying. They're sitting close together. He scans the room without interest.
"Long week, kid?" Their drinks just came. Morgan runs his pinky finger around the lip of the glass, not interested in it. It's just soda, anyways.
Reid looks down at his wine glass. Red. He rubs a hand over his eyes. "A little bit, yeah." He takes a drink. "Nathan Harris's mom called me."
Even with all of these people around, Morgan seems to hear him fine. Reid hasn't acquired that skill, yet. "Yeah? And?" he asks, raising his glass.
Reid looks down at the table. The scratched and peeling wood. He looks back up at Morgan. "He's getting help. I don't know how well he's responding to it, but it's something, right?" He drums his fingers against the base of his glass.
Morgan lets out a breathless laugh; shakes his head. "You're not supposed to be everything for him. Because, let me tell you, no matter what you say or what you do, he has to be the one to help himself."
Reid purses his lips. "That's what everyone says, but I still can't get it out of my head that I'm responsible." There's a group of girls standing near their table, but he can't hear their voices at all. The wine tastes bitter going down and the aftertaste is sweet on the back of his tongue.
"You can't get anything out of your head, genius. You gotta try and accept that it wasn't your fault that he did what he did. And quick, because it's taking you over." Morgan's glass is empty.
"How do you deal with it?" Reid asks.
Morgan shrugs. "Always weigh the good against the bad. You can't help everyone and you're just as important as any victim. Take care of yourself." Like that's easy with a job like this. Working on his degree. Worrying about his mom. It's a twenty-four hour day. Reid doesn't even fit into his own life anymore. The last swallow of his wine is numbing.
"I don't have time for myself. Just when I'm sleeping and even then." Nightmares. The glass is too warm in his hands. Sticky with fingerprints. "Always on call."
Morgan looks at him. It's almost sad. "You'll figure it out, Reid. You're going to have to sooner or later." Morgan sits up straighter in his chair, throwing something off. "Wanna get out of here?" he asks, hands already going for his coat.
Reid shakes his head. "Not really. I don't really want to be by myself even if I'm just going to end up sitting here." He lets out what was supposed to be a laugh. He looks away from Morgan.
"Come and hang out with me. Discover the joys of late-night TV." Morgan stands up and fixes the lapels of his coat.
Reid looks up at him, face twisted. "Sure you don't want to go home with a girl?"
"Hey," Morgan says, finger pointed at him. "This was not a date, pretty boy. It was friends taking care of friends."
Reid knew what schizophrenia was when he was eight. It's taken him almost twenty years to understand how its symptoms manifest, progress. What it does to the only person that he loves. All that understanding doesn't help his mom. It helps him and he feels guilty, but that small thrum of comfort under his skin is worth it. It goes cold when he sees her.
He sat in her room after they took her away. One of them - Michael - told him that in cases like these, he should wait until they get her settled. A week, two weeks, a month. It depends. Her chair was still warm, notes fresh on the paper of her notebook. He ran his fingers down the page; not reading, just feeling. She used archival ink so the words wouldn't smear or fade away.
Reid hates that memory. He hates the feeling he gets, like it's already happening to him. Reid's scared of the dark, sure, but there's ways around that. Genetics can't be modified. He's proud to be Diana Reid's son and to know all of the things that she's taught him. That will never change, but the fear is there. That's the worst.
"Honey," Garcia says, the word sweet in her mouth. "I know that the last time we went out that Horrible Thing happened, but what do you say? Coworkers's Night Out?" The glow from her computer screen makes her smile blue.
Reid tries to make sense of the code on-screen, fingers tapping against his jaw. "Me and Morgan already did that. Out drinking at a very loud bar." His voice is doing that droning thing and he knows it.
"Oh, like a date. Two attractive men. Out. Together. Hm." The black and white text flits across the screen way too fast for even Reid to try and keep track of it. He sits back.
Reid coughs. "Is that what you are? Tech analyst and pervert?"
"Not a pervert, an optimist. It's a full-time job, sweetie." The code disappears from the monitor and the surrounding ones go black. She turns to Reid. "He's there for you because he cares about you, not because he thinks he has to be. Morgan's secretly the really, really good guy."
She works in episodes. He can deal with almost all of it and years of practice have taught him how to gauge what to say and when to leave. The last thing Reid wants is for anyone to forget her. It's why he writes. He'll never forget a single one of her details - every book she's read, the perfume she would wear when she remembered. Reid knows that it's an irrational fear (he will never ever forget anything, let alone anything about her). He just doesn't want her to wake up someday and not remember.
All of the things he is. All of the things she is.
It's been a while since his last visit. Her smile when he left her was warm and soft and matronly. That part makes him ache. It's such a big contrast to her panic and fever dreams. Reid can feel when she's fading. She's not bad, but she's not okay. The scale is always sliding. Her doctor's face goes from welcoming to grim faster, now. He could barely sleep when he got back to Quantico. How Reid gets any rest at all is beyond him.
The next two weeks are slow. They get nothing more than cases to advise on - thick stacks of files piling up on everyone's desk. It's a relief. His shoulders relax a little. Just a little, but it's enough for now.
Reid doesn't even realise that it's after five when Morgan taps his fingers against the top of his desk. His cheek is warm from where his hand was resting. He makes a tired noise. "Yeah?" he asks, back muscles pulling perfectly up and down. They're all getting restless.
"You going home any time soon, Reid?" he asks. There's a smile, but there's also concern in his body language. "That a yes or no?"
Reid inhales, lets the air stay for too long in his lungs. His exhale is loud. "Yes." He clears his throat. "Yeah, I'm going home. I think I can make the 6:10 train." He starts feeling around his desk for his things.
Morgan adjusts the gun on his belt. "No, you won't. I'm driving you." Reid looks up at him. He doesn't read what's there. "Non-negotiable."
"That doesn't really work with me. And tackling me would be counter-productive." He catches the flash of Morgan's smile as he puts his files into his bag. "It's fine, really. I just need some time alone, I think."
Morgan looks disappointed. He shrugs. "You spend too much time in that head of yours, you might just get lost." He looks down at Reid. "You know where I am if you need me." He squeezes Reid's shoulder, eyes dragging upwards.
Morgan's walk out is a little too casual. A little too slow. Intentional.
Reid knows that this isn't the right time. He finally fell asleep late after midnight and now he's up again. A quarter to four. Morgan would kill him if he were that kind of person. Reid may know his home number for a reason.
He keeps seeing Nathan's face and hearing stories his mom would read to him synched together. Her voice drifting off to a different place, Reid still tucked against her side. He woke up without her there and he can feel all of the 2446 miles between Quantico and Las Vegas. Alone.
"Morgan?" He waits until Morgan makes some sign that he's awake.
He hears the rustle of sheets and a whispered, "Fuck." He coughs. "Yeah, kid?"
"I haven't slept properly in about three weeks."
Morgan has never tried to fix it in just ten minutes.
The heat from the paper cups Reid's holding is making his hands feel tight and dry. He carefully navigates his way through the Bureau. He feels sleep all of the way up his back. It's a good feeling. Resolved.
"Briefing in ten," JJ says, passing by in a whirl. She smells like sharp perfume and baby powder. It hurts Reid's head. He feels the headache behind his eyes, but he's also aware of the restlessness in his body. He flips the page on his notepad and heads to the conference room.
Prentiss is already settled in, coffee hot beside her. She gives him a tight smile and leans her head against her hand. "You got a headache, too?" he asks, taking a seat beside her. The smell of coffee makes him dizzy.
Clearly, Prentiss feels the same way. "Yeah," she says, cringing. "Hey, JJ, coffee?" She asks, pushing the cup across the table. JJ smiles warmly and takes a sip. Prentiss looks away.
Reid checks his watch. The rest of the team should be here. "Just us?" he asks, voice unnecessarily low. He was looking forward to the routine of working with everyone. Feeling rushed and motivated.
Prentiss drops her hand down onto Reid's. It's cold. "It's just you and me," she says right as JJ breaks in with, "Hotch doesn't think the case requires the team's full attention right now," before Prentiss can say anything else.
With the way he and Prentiss are feeling, it might.
The file is thin and the flight is long. Idaho Falls, Idaho. There's an arsonist setting large-scale fires that appear to be escalating. After hours. There's only been a handful of deaths considering the venues, but threats have been made promising that more would occur.
Gideon probably suggested to Hotch that Reid get out of the office and Prentiss still needs the practice. Terrorists are definitely not their everyday. He's not saying he isn't thankful. These cases get him away from himself: Reid gets to focus on people who really need his help.
"Reid," Prentiss says, her voice cutting through his thoughts. "Reid, you okay? You look totally out of it." He hasn't known Prentiss for very long, but her concern is genuine. It's in her eyes when she wants it to be.
He blinks, sitting up straighter. He wants to just brush her off and say yes, he is. Reid doesn't, though. "I've just been worried about my mom." He bites down on his tongue. Prentiss doesn't know. She probably should, but it'll take a little too much out of Reid to explain it all.
Prentiss lets out a sigh. "Oh god, I know what you mean. Ever since I started with the BAU, my mother won't return my calls. It's hard to focus on so much when it seems to mean so little. I can't even really care." But it's clear that it still bothers her. She slaps her hands down onto her thighs. "Oh, that was rude of me, Reid. Just started spouting off about my own problems."
Reid nods. "Guess it's a common problem for a lot of BAU agents. Actually, it's more common for children to have deep-rooted issues with their father rather than with their mother. And some of us just get lucky and have both." Reid opens the case file in his lap again, breaking eye contact with Prentiss.
"Do you want to," Prentiss stops short. "No, never mind. The last thing you probably want is a coworker who pries." She gives Reid a self-depreciating smile.
Reid feels like laughing. "What do you think Morgan does? And Garcia? Oh man, even Hotch." There's light in her face when she looks back up at him. "It's not that," Reid says. "It a long story. And not really a good one to tell." He's trying to make it clear that next to no one really knows. No bias, just survival.
Prentiss nods. "I know exactly what you mean. I'll complain about my mother, but I don't actually tell anyone why I'm complaining about her." She lets out a sigh. "Parents, right?"
Something like that.
Reid's doing a quick, small-scale geological profile of the locations where the fires were set when his phone rings. He picks it up automatically. "Reid," Morgan says. "What's the cube root of one twenty-five?"
"Five," Reid says. He circles two of the sites in bright red. "Wait, what?"
Morgan laughs and Reid pictures his smile. His desk. The way he sits in his chair with his feet up. "Not important." He hears paper being shuffled. "You got a letter. Nathan Harris. Thought maybe you should know."
The name barely registers at first as Reid's asking, "Why were you looking through my mail?" Reid connects another three streets together with black, the arsonist seemingly the fondest of it. Nathan Harris runs through his head again. The feeling rises up slowly. The map distracts him. Morgan distracts him.
"Hand-delivered to the BAU. His mom. What, you really think I'm that invested in your government reports? I can just read my own." He doesn't wait for Reid. "She looks pretty good. Like maybe it's working."
Reid's shoulders loosen. He smiles quietly down at his work. "Thanks, Morgan." He catches Prentiss looking at him from the corner of his eye as she walks back into the conference room they're working in.
He can see Morgan shrugging. "Hey, I care about you, Reid. We all do." Prentiss sets a cup of coffee down in front of him followed by a handful of sugar packets. Real sugar.
The rest of their time in Idaho goes by quickly. He and Prentiss present the profile and help to narrow down the suspect pool. The PD has a strong lead on a suspect by the time they're taking off. He feels warm.
He writes his letter on the plane, letting himself get distracted by Prentiss's enthusiastic retellings of her favourite books. She looks up from turning a page. She must catch who he's addressing on the paper because she's saying, "Tell her I say hi."
Reid takes in her expression and relaxed body. The way she feels comfortable with him, right now. Reid writes it in as he last line. He kicks off his shoes and settles into his seat.
He slips Nathan's letter into his bag on his way out. Everyone's already left for the night. Prentiss waits up for him.
There are a lot of words filling up Reid's apartment; ideas, theories, stories, and lives. If he were a more imaginative person, it might be overwhelming. Reid deals with too much reality for that to happen. It's there and then it's not there, Nathan writes. It's an itch. The words stumble slowly into his mind. Not entered as blocks of text. Reid pulls at his tie. Too tight at the base of his throat.
Four bodies come up just as clearly as the days he saw them. The hair, the blood stain across the dress. Nathan turning and running back into the crowd. Reid would be just as horrified. Alone. Reid can't be the only one to help him.
"So, what'd the letter say? Is that boy going to leave our doctor alone and start bothering his own?" According to Reid, it's way too early for him to even be thinking about why everyone seems to know, but this is Garcia. He'll go where she goes.
Reid takes a deep breath and lets out a laugh. "It's a little more serious than that, Garcia." He looks over her shoulder at the aerial view of a dump site. This is probably not a good time for this conversation. Hotch is waiting for these pictures.
"Yeah? How serious is it? Serious enough for Morgan to lie about Nathan's mom bringing it in? Please. He peeled the stamp off with the help of yours truly," Garcia says. Her fingertips hover in front of her mouth. She's grinning. And it has nothing to do with interstates and cedar forests.
"What?" Reid asks, walking over to the printer. The pictures are burnt onto the paper using a xerographic printing process. Morgan doesn't do things like that for Reid. Or for anyone, really.
Garcia spins to face him, her skirts flaring out. "He just wants you to relax. But, it also kind of looks like my favourite muscular son-of-a-gun has a crush. And on a certain genius who can't match his socks. What is your IQ, anyways?" She makes no move to even begin to disguise her gleefulness. Weirdly intimidating. "Honey, did you hear what I said?"
Reid doesn't even think before he's saying, "Of course." She's probably just fucking with him, but that's not like Garcia. "But I probably just heard you wrong." Ink from the printed pictures smears across Reid's hands.
There's another letter in Morgan's hands when Reid comes in to work the next morning. He'll admit that it ruins his day. Just when he started moving on.
He tucks the fourth, fifth, and sixth ones into the drawer of his desk. Prentiss carefully avoids looking, but Morgan raises his eyebrow and presses his fingers to the back of Reid's neck as he passes by.
Morgan drops a cup of coffee down onto Reid's desk on his way back from the break room. "Maybe me and you should go and talk to Gideon, yeah?" Prentiss offers her own encouraging look over the space between their desks.
Reid sips his coffee, considering. "Yeah, okay."
Morgan makes him bring Nathan's letters. The last two aren't even opened. He gives them to Morgan and follows him to Gideon's office. He really has no idea what Morgan's up to at this point; Reid doesn't really care. He just doesn't want to feel tormented by that case anymore. He wants to move forward.
"Gideon," Morgan says, dropping the letters down onto his desk, fanning out over his work. "We need to talk." Gideon looks down slowly, sliding his reading glasses off. He turns the envelopes over.
"Well, it seems that me and Spencer need to talk. They are addressed to him, aren't they?" Gideon's words seem harsh, but Reid knows they aren't. The look Gideon pins Reid with is one years of mentoring has familiarised him with. "What do we need to talk about, Spencer?"
Reid swallows thickly. "Uh, Nathan Harris? He's been sending me letters and generally refusing help from his own doctor. Basically, he won't let himself be helped by anyone else but me." He coughs out a laugh. "It's making me relive that night over and over again. I can't help him like this." He can almost feel Morgan's hand on his back, anchoring him. "I was almost past it."
Gideon thumbs one of the open envelopes, but he doesn't seem interested in reading the letter inside. "Then you should stop." Something inside Morgan seems to tighten. Reid ignores it. Gideon gets these kinds of things. "Maybe you should go visit him. Take Morgan with you."
Morgan makes a disbelieving noise. "So, it's just going to be that easy? This kid tried to kill himself. Reid saved his life. And now he needs Reid to fix it, too?" Reid can only watch on with curiosity.
"Did you bring him here because you expected me to say something else?" Reid knows that Gideon knows that Morgan has a hard time reading people when he's angry. It's the same for all of them, really, but Morgan already has a hard time understanding Gideon sometimes.
Morgan squeezes the back of his neck. He drops his hand down to his side, a staccato off of his hip. "No, I didn't. It's not that easy, though, Gideon."
Gideon spreads his hands out in front of himself. "I never said it would be."
"You don't have to do this. You didn't have to come with me," Reid says, tucking his hair behind his ear. He pulls his coat closer to his body as he looks up at the hospital. Nathan is somewhere in all of those windows, reflecting back the night.
Morgan shrugs. "Some things we shouldn't do alone." The sweat on his skin looks cold. Reid can see himself touching there. He looks away.
They're given Nathan's ward and room number after an anxious wait behind other visitors. They have an hour. Reid can barely concentrate; not paying attention when Morgan tries to talk to him.
"You gonna be okay, kid?" Morgan asks, right beside his ear. In Reid's space. The elevator climbs the floors slowly.
Reid nods quickly. "Yeah, why shouldn't I be?" The blood rushes to the surface of his skin. Help, failure. Those women in magazines covered with cuts and bruises and lacerations. He doesn't get it - doesn't know necrophilia well enough - but there are people who do. Nathan needs to know that. Reid scratches at his wrist. He winces into Morgan when his nails press too hard. Morgan's hand comes up to his chest.
The elevator bell goes. Reid concentrates on the comforting pressure against his sternum. "Time to face your fears."
Nathan is sitting up in bed with a book in his hands. There are more stacked around the room; fiction, criminal investigation, comic books. His choices remind Reid of himself. He takes a deep breath to quiet the feeling rising up inside of him. The walk through the ward already had it going.
"Dr. Reid?" Nathan asks, looking up at him with clouded eyes. He's not surprised. The hairs on the back of Reid's neck stand up when Nathan's gaze doesn't weaken. Morgan's shadow falls down to the floor beside his.
Reid forces a smile and walks up to the bed, keeping distance between them. "Hi, Nathan. I got your letters." He sits down. "You look better." Morgan hovers by the window, carefully not paying attention to them. "But I'm not really sure why. You don't seem to want anyone here to help you."
Nathan folds the book over his thigh. Wise Blood by Flannery O'Connor. A book about a man trying to start a church. Faith. "They don't know how to help me. And if they do, how will I be able to tell if it it's working, anyways?" He shrugs and crosses his arms across his chest. He's wanted to say that for a long time.
"You can't really measure the progress of the mind." There's scarred skin down Nathan's forearms. It's angry and red, but most of all - it's new. Only two or three small and shallow cuts. They were to get off. Reid reminds himself that Nathan is going to struggle, especially if he's trying to deal with this alone. He looks back up at Nathan's face. "And that helps?"
Nathan doesn't meet his eyes. Like that night in the church. "Why didn't you write me back?" His voice is small and his words run together easily. "It's been six weeks." The disappointment is obvious, though. Reid feels it in himself. He shouldn't.
Morgan is watching them, reserving judgement. He probably wants to say a lot of things. Some helpful (he's a kid, yeah, but he's taking advantage of Reid) and some not. He won't, though, because this is between Reid and Nathan. Reid appreciates it.
"It was hard for me, too. That case. You." He gives Nathan a weak smile. It's true. "You needing me."
"But you guys see stuff like that all the time," Nathan says. His voice isn't a whisper now. Rising and warbling. "I'm nothing special." He's avoiding what Reid's really talking about.
Reid can almost hear Morgan's, "No, we don't," over his own. "Sure, we get involved with cases, but not like this. I haven't stopped recalling those murders since they happened. Because of you." His voice whisper-quiet.
"And with a mind like that," Morgan cuts in, "you better believe he didn't miss a single thing." He walks away from the window and towards Reid and Nathan. The air is still between them. Morgan watches Nathan carefully. He's secretly a really, really good guy.
Nathan sighs. "Why are you here, then? To tell me to leave you alone?" Reid already feels like the worst person in the world. Morgan's here to remind him that he's not.
"No," Reid says. He clasps his hands together tightly in his lap. "But I think you need to start trusting the people here. They can help you more than I can. What I do will only remind you of what you could be. Nathan, you can come closer to finding a balance. You have a mom who loves you and people here who want to help you. I can't be the only one here for you. Because I can tell you all about why people are the people they are and I don't think you should know. It gives you a chance."
Reid's never necessarily been the best at this, but he thinks he's doing all right. Morgan looks like he thinks so, too. There's warmness there that Reid doesn't think he was aware of before. He doesn't even realise Nathan's talking at first.
"If you think so," he says. "You're the special agent and everything." He waves his hand out towards the window like he doesn't care. He does. And Reid does, but neither of them are going to get anywhere like this.
Reid shakes his head. "No, I'm you're friend. He's the supervisory special agent. What, with his gun and tough demeanour." Nathan lets out a quiet laugh.
"Hey, you carry a gun, too, Reid," Morgan says, straight-faced, before breaking into a grin. Reid turns his attention back to Nathan.
"When you need me, I'll be here, but trust the people closest to you. I've figured out that it works better than you think it will." He puts his hand on Nathan's shoulder. "I'm serious," Reid says as he stands up.
Nathan picks the book back up again. The spine stretches out between his hands. "Okay, Dr. Reid."
"I'm not going to say no to a phone call every once in a while. Just ask Morgan here." He slides his hands into his pockets and ignores the way Morgan's pretty much scoffing at him. Reid feels a little more comfortable now.
They get out of the hospital. The dark outside doesn't seem as dark. It never really did anyways, with the light pollution. Reid's usually asleep or wired when he's driving at night. He's either about to apprehend an unsub or has apprehended an unsub. Or, he's going home. He curls into himself, feeling sleep anchoring him outside of consciousness. It's nice.
Morgan is watching the road, waiting. The traffic is moving erratically. Morgan doesn't seem to mind that much. He turns his body towards Morgan's in his seat.
"Hey, don't let me hold you back from sleeping, Reid. It's still going to be a little while before home." Morgan's not concerned about it. "You did good in there."
Reid nods heavily. "I think I'm starting to realise that maintaining my own sanity is just as important as maintaining anyone else's."
He falls asleep thinking about that.
Morgan nudges his shoulder, waking Reid up to the blue-black darkness surrounding them. "This is your place," Morgan says. Both of his hands loosely grip the steering wheel.
The lights outside of Reid's apartment building have always been suspect. His landlord hasn't replaced the lightbulbs in the foyer in months and the only streetlights that are nearby have burned out. It bothers him more than he lets on.
Reid sits up, rubs at his eyes. He checks the clock; he's been out of it for longer than he would have guessed. "You want to come up? I can make more drinkable coffee than the BAU and the hospital. A thank-you." He gestures his hand out towards the nothings in the dark.
Morgan considers, his tongue pressed into the inner-corner of his mouth. "Yeah, I will. But, Reid, you don't need to thank me. It's what we do for each other. Family, right?" He reaches out for Reid's shoulder, thumb resting against the bare skin of his neck. Reid feels something in his stomach jump. Family. He gets out of the car. Morgan follows.
The walk up to the building feels like it's been slowed down and it isn't just him. Morgan's right there. He looks for his keys in his bag to distract himself. He feels Morgan's hand on his back. Reid stops. "Morgan," Reid starts, but he can't finish.
Morgan's mouth is soft and warm (and if Reid's being honest, exactly what he would have expected). He might force people up against walls and yeah, he carries a gun to work (Reid does, too!), but that doesn't translate in this. The feeling in Reid's stomach flares. He kisses back.
Morgan pulls away and Reid doesn't follow. "That wasn't really what I wanted to do there," Morgan says, scratching at the back of his neck. "There's usually at least some kind of date first." Morgan is apologising. To Reid.
"A pre-requisite? Four years at the Bureau hasn't been enough?" Reid knows what that warmth meant. That comfort. All of it. Morgan's hands are still pressed tightly into Reid's back. He smiles to himself.
"Kid, I may like you, but I will not let you disgrace the values my mom taught me. I'm serious."
Reid laughs, muffles it against his shoulder. "So, holding off on the coffee, then?" Morgan's fingers find their way up his back to the hair at the nape of Reid's neck.
"Yeah."
Writing to his mom is engrained in Reid. He has a notebook that he keeps in his bag. When they're on a case, Reid writes throughout the day so that he doesn't forget to do it at night, her voice telling him to sleep (like he would). Whether it's two in the morning or twelve noon, Reid always finds a place to post it. He does it to feel close to her.
Even with her medication and her ticks, she's still his mom. He doesn't like to see her at her worst. It's like they say to the families: remember her at her best. She's brilliant and it's the reason that Reid is, too. Her best qualities are his best qualities. Schizophrenia is genetic, but so are all of these other traits.
He can't be afraid of himself if he's not afraid of her.