letting the cables sleep

lagolindari @ 2009-12-25T17:22:00

2009-12-25T16:22:24Z

Merry Christmas to you all!

picture by Eto

[fic]: silent, white light

2009-12-16T13:26:47Z

[mood| tired]

Title: Silent, white light
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG
Prompt: winter from criminal_prompt.
Summary: “Morgan – just put me down. Are you aware of the connotations that carrying another person to the doorstep involves?”.
Notes: After 5x01. This has been begging to be written ever since.

“Hey, kid – wake up. We're home,” Morgan said, turning off the engine. He retrieved the key, listening to the car's last morbid rumbles – then he looked to the passenger side, where Reid was blinking, trying to pretend he hadn't dozed off half-curled on the seat.

“M' awake,” the kid croaked, almost on cue – Morgan smiled, deciding to let it go, and turned to look at the shimmering whiteness outside. They'd landed in the early morning to find a snow covered landscape stretching before them, apparently endless – soothing, in some way, to their tired nerves. The drive home had been slow, Morgan double-checking every swerve, every turn – he couldn't remember having felt so exhausted in ages. Although, he half-considered – that seemed to be pretty much how he felt after every case.

“God. I'm not getting out of the shower for a week,” he said, rubbing the aching muscles in his neck, before leaning back against the seat. He closed his eyes, allowing himself another moment before getting out in the cold.

He thought he heard Reid's sleepy snicker, somewhere by his side. “I'm not getting out of bed for a fortnight, at the very least,” the kid mumbled. Morgan peeked to the side, in time to see him rubbing his eyes with the hem of his sleeve – and did not find it cute. Most definitely not..

“Come on. Let's get in there, then,” he said, and pushed the door open before he could change his mind. He stepped out, snow crunching under his soles – and he had to blink, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness. The morning light was white and neat and cold – it spread easily through the icy, limpid air, reaching everything, almost blinding. It glinted off ice covered roofs, suffused clumps of frozen snow, shone on distant houses in patterns of mysterious, friendly sparkles. The world seemed spacious, luminous and pure – deserted and silent, drowning in quiet light. Morgan took a deep breath, coolness spreading into his lungs, making his head feel lighter. Right about now, that was exactly what he needed.

He heard Reid hiss in protest as the cold air invaded the car, and the other door clicked open right away. “You can be a very mean person,” Reid muttered, rubbing his hands vigorously, before gripping his cane. His breath condensed in well-defined little clouds, floating in the clear air – he knew there would be ice, smeared all over the road. He sighed, preparing himself to a painstakingly slow hike.

“Get going, kid. I'll be right behind you,” Morgan said, and walked to the trunk to retrieve the emergency food they'd got along the way – muffins and caramel fudge and blueberry croissants still warm from the oven. And, when Reid wasn't looking, he'd added a generous portion of brownies – possibly just because he really liked to see the kid's smile. Not that he would say that out loud.

He kept an eye on the kid as he carefully got off the car, and started hobbling towards the garden. Morgan watched with a slight frown, taking in the way Reid walked just a little too slowly, leaning more heavily on his cane. His limp seemed worse. Maybe, Morgan considered, he would sneak the crutches on the jet next time they had to leave – just in case.

He looked at the kid's back, at his worn brown jacket – that was definitely not thick enough to keep him warm in December – at how he carefully planned his steps, at the way he hopped past a frozen puddle, stretching shiny and irregular across the road. Morgan sighed, gathering the crumpled food bag, and deciding to ignore the travel ones. He knew Reid was bothered when he started being over-protective – he'd already more or less promised he would try to keep it in check. It seemed like he would have to stick to trying to be subtle about it, instead.

He slammed the hood shut, flexing his shoulders, and conceded himself a deep breath of biting winter air before he made is way towards the house. When he reached the pavement, he found that Reid had stopped and was standing at the little gate, waiting for him.

“Hey. Everything alright, pretty boy?” Morgan shifted the bag from one hand to the other, and placed his free palm against the small of Reid's back. (And, deep down – something in his chest still stirred, incredulous and grateful, when he didn't flinch away.)

“Yeah,” replied Reid, a slight frown on his forehead – he tilted his head to the side, offering Morgan a tiny smile. He was eyeing the narrow stone path, which gracefully across the garden, leading to the front door. “I don't really think I can walk on that,” he said, vaguely gesturing towards it with his cane.

Morgan squinted his eyes against the white light, bouncing off the clusters of snow, shimmering off the flat stone of the walkway, cold and bright. The path was coated in thin, transparent ice – crackled in delicate intricacies, criss crossing all the way to the door – glinting, pretty and silent and dangerous, insidiously draped on the doorsteps.

Morgan pressed the tip of his boot on threshold, testing the ice – it crackled and fractured, but did not come off. It was smeared across the stones, slippery – offering virtually no grip. He shook his head – he would have to agree with Reid on this one. He didn't need a string of statistics on ice-related injuries to know that there was no way the kid would be able to balance himself on there.

“Okay. Maybe we could try the back door,” Morgan said, flexing his fingers against Reid's back. The kid's frown lightened, beginning to look more and more like a pout.

“It is locked from the inside,” he said. “Statistically, twenty-five percent of burglars get in through the back door,” he added, absently. He stared at the path, tapping his fingers on the cane's knob – Morgan couldn't help but notice the way Reid leaned ever so slightly into him, as if seeking shelter from the crispy breeze.

“Well, I guess I could try walking on the grass. That should offer more purchase...” the kid said, hesitant. Morgan failed to repress a chuckle.

“Reid, seriously. When was the last time you tidied that yard up?” He eyed Reid with a raised eyebrow – the garden was a miniature jungle, grass growing tall and wild, ice-frosted and crunchy. “Chances are you'll trip on some root, or on that toy Clooney abandoned here last summer.”

“Yeah,” Reid conceded, still quite reluctant. “I suppose it's true. Well – I guess we could...”

Morgan shook his head, trying not to let his amusement show through – and pretty much failing. “Kid, I'd say there's only one thing to do,” he said. He held out the bag, waiting for Reid to take it, resisting the urge to smile at his confused expression –

“So, exactly what are you planning to – ”

– and swept the kid up in one fluid motion, one arm strong around his back, the other lodged under his knees. He could no longer contain his grin as Reid let out a surprised yelp, one hand instinctively reaching to curl around Morgan's neck, trying to find a hold.

“Morgan!” he almost squeaked, flushed with embarrassment. He struggled with his words, unsure of what to say next. For once, Morgan thought, feeling rather smug – the kid seemed to have been rendered speechless.

“You are not doing this!” he finally spluttered. Morgan tried to assume a professional expression.

“Desperate times,” he announced, seriously.

Reid attempted a glare, the effect ruined by the blush spreading on his cheekbones. “Morgan – I swear, if you don't put me down – ”

“No can do, kid. Now hold tight!” Morgan replied, and took off along the path, in careful, measured steps. Reid put on his kitten pout, but Morgan bravely held his ground.

“Morgan – just put me down. Are you aware of the connotations that carrying another person to the doorstep involves?” Reid babbled, his natural response to nervousness kicking in. “It is a gesture traditionally associated with wedding ceremonies, antiquely intended to prevent the bride from bringing spirits in the house through her footsteps. Actually, I can't say I approve of the feminine attributes that my position implies, considering the...”

“Hey,” Morgan interrupted, fondly exasperated. It was too early in the morning and he didn't have enough coffee in his system to come out with a way to talk Reid into it – so he went for quick and practical. “Kid – shut up, or I'm dropping you.”

Reid's pout intensified. “Fine,” he said, grumpy – and he heard Morgan's laughter, its deep rumble vibrating against his body. He remained quiet, clutching the bag of sweets which rested on his lap. It smelled like caramel and freshly baked cakes and warm hours spent cocooned in thick blankets, huddling on the sofa. He thought he could also detect a hint of chocolate – he repressed a secret smile, as something warm and pleasant stirred in his chest. He was sure he'd seen Morgan eyeing the brownies on display.

He shifted in Morgan's arms, nestling closer to his body. Maybe he could pass it off as huddling for warmth. Maybe – he really wouldn't need to.

Morgan's chest was warm, a pleasant contrast with the crisp breeze infiltrating through his clothes, brushing fresh and biting on his face – he could hear the ice crackling under Morgan's soles, yet he realised he wasn't afraid of falling. Morgan's arms were warm, too, solid weight against his skin, holding him up with no apparent effort – Morgan felt strong, and steady, and safe. Reid clutched the paper bag a little tighter. Yes – Morgan felt – safe.

Reid turned his face up, meeting Morgan's eyes, and smiled. “You wouldn't drop me,” he said, trying not to sound too cocky. There was something warm filtering through his voice, and he didn't try very hard to hide it. “I have deducted it with my staggering profiling abilities.”

Morgan grinned back, slowing down just a little. “Oh, really?” he replied, warm. “And what makes you so sure I wouldn't?”

Reid's smile was tiny, and easily as bright as the sunlight captured by the ice. “I have the food,” he said. Morgan couldn't help an affectionate chuckle, and just held him tighter.

“Pretty boy – you really are a genius, then.”

.

lagolindari @ 2009-12-09T23:55:00

2009-12-09T20:55:09Z

Crappy day of the year: burglars broke into my house and stole my Macbook. With all my writing, including new unpublished stuff, and pictures of my boyfriend's concerts and family birthdays that I will never see again. Merry freaking christmas.

Giornata di merda dell'anno: i ladri sono entrati in casa e si sono presi il mio Macbook. Con tutte i miei scritti, inclusi capitoli nuovi non ancora pubblicati, e foto dei concerti del mio fidanzato e compleanni in famiglia che non vedro' mai piu'. Per la serie, buon Natale.

[fic]: all you have to do is breathe

2009-11-10T02:44:42Z

[mood| quiet]

Title: All you have to do is breathe [part 1]
Author: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: 5 things from criminal_prompt. Thanks to devon99 for prompting some of the scenes :).
Summary: Five times Morgan almost kissed Spencer Reid - and the time Reid kissed him.

1. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between shadow and light. - Rod Sterling

When he heard the click of the bathroom door, Morgan squinted one eye open against the warm glow of the bedside lamp, repressing a groan. He watched as Reid scuffled into the room – his hair damp and his work clothes folded on his arm – and turned to shut the door as silently as possible, before tiptoeing towards the wardrobe.

“'m awake,” Morgan said, stifling a yawn – with some effort, he managed to open the other eye as well. Reid's gaze flickered towards him, and his smile glimmered in the dim light.

“Sorry,” he whispered. He picked up a hanger, eyeing it critically, then settled on dumping his clothes in a pile on the nearest armchair – and stood in his too-big purple shirt and his stripy pyjama bottoms, worrying the edge of his sleeve with careful fingers. “I didn't mean to wake you up.”

“You didn't,” replied Morgan, with a groan. He stirred, his eyelids sliding shut again, as he adjusted himself on the lumpy mattress. “It seems my back does not approve of this bed.”

“You know, more than 70% of Americans commonly have trouble sleeping,” Reid said, his voice still hushed, as if he were reporting highly confidential information. “Although the majority of cases are due to psychological factors, lack of sleep because of an uncomfortable mattress can lead to low concentration levels and make the subject more susceptible to infectious germs in the air. It is very important to have an adequate sleeping environment in order to be in optimal mental and physical condition,” he continued, happily.

Morgan just smiled, without opening his eyes. “No kidding,” he said, not quite able to keep his amusement out of his voice.

“Key elements for a good sleep are a comfortable surface, a clean environment, and of course darkness and quiet, and – oh.” He paused, and Morgan could not repress a grin. He half-opened his eyes, enough to see Reid step towards the bedside table, uncertain. “I'll just... well, be quiet, then. And I guess...” he said, his eyes darting sideways towards the lamp. Morgan huffed a laugh.

“Nah,” he said, folding an arm behind his head, his voice already gruff with sleep. “Leave that. No inherent absence of light tonight, kid.”

Reid hesitated, as if debating whether he should protest – then smiled that simple, brilliant smile that was his silent way to say thank you, and trotted to his bed. And Morgan had to squash down a smile of his own as he watched the kid burrow himself under the covers – “Goodnight, Morgan,” was all he said before he curled up on his side, his hair promptly falling on his face, and pulled the blanket up to his nose. When Morgan looked next, Reid's eyes were closed, and his breath was slow.

“Goodnight, kid,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the suddenly too vast room. He rolled back to stare at the ceiling, and closed his eyes as well, pretending not to listen to the soft breathing by his side.

---

Except, he wouldn't know how long after, or even why – Morgan finds himself quietly awake, his eyes adjusting slowly to the arrangement of shadows in the room – cut and shaped by a slit of pale, cold light trickling through the curtains, and the warm cone spreading from the lamp.

He lets his gaze map the shadows, distract – travelling along the lines and shapes they conjure up, hide or reveal – and he can't ignore the tiniest jolt in his chest when he suddenly recognises the contours and planes of Reid's body. He recognises his hip in a sharp angle of the covers, and close to that he can make out his hand, fingers curled loosely around the fabric – he traces the lines of his arm, disappearing under a bunched up sleeve, then gets lost into the darkness until he finds a shard of light that outlines Reid's chin, his lips, and then is captured by his hair, fractured into thin, shiny threads.

Morgan can't see very well, but Reid's hair is a mess. He smiles, and it's so secret that, perhaps – he himself doesn't quite know.

And it's about then that he realises what it is that woke him up – because Reid's mouth purses, and his whole body seems to tense – the morbid lines of shadow broken, the contrasts suddenly harsh. Morgan can make out the outline of Reid's throat as he swallows, once, twice – and then he hears it. He hears it again, he realises, that's what called him back to awareness – a breath that is just a little too loud, tinged with the smallest trace of voice, the hint of a gasp – low, thin, that somehow finds its way out of Reid's throat.

...and that is enough.

Morgan's movements are swift. He shifts to Reid's side, barefoot and silent on the carpet, and leans over him, uncertain – restraining his urge to intervene, to do something, because he may be wrong, he cannot be certain, except for his instincts commanding him to wake. And yet, somehow, he's sure – he's come to know Reid's breathing, he's learnt its patterns and its minute variations over countless nights. He can tell when the kid is exhausted, he can tell whether he's sleeping or laying awake, and thinks he will remember all his life the horrible sound of when machines had to breath for him – and he just knows this isn't – right. So he stares, willing himself to wait – but Reid's lips are too pale, pressed together in a thin line, and his brow his creased, fine lines converging between his eyes. Yes, Morgan can read the signs with ease, now. Then, as his hand brushes Reid's shoulder, as he looks at the kid, trying to figure out what to do, whether he should shake him or maybe grab his hand – whether he should touch him at all, or maybe call him, just like that other time, when he'd said –

(Reid – wake up. It's Morgan.),

– Reid's mouth parts in another soft, half-chocked gasp, and his eyes seem to squeeze tighter as he tenses again. And Morgan suddenly can't move, his hands frozen in mid-air, for half an endless second he can't bloody breathe – his voice gets stuck deep in his throat, the words dying before even reaching his lips, and his gaze – God, for the longest, scorching instant he can't tear his gaze away from that mouth, sketched in shadows and whispers of light, and he's just -

And it's inappropriate, and ten kinds of wrong, and there is no room for such thoughts in a moment like this, and Morgan isn't thinking anything, anything at all, because the circumstances are so very, deeply wrong. Yet – yet he lingers, his fingers ghosting up, to the corner of Reid's lips, and he can't help but wonder – just a tiny bit, just a little, and he will blame it on the late hour, on being still half asleep, on everything he can – what it would be like if he could, God, if he – if he could, just for a moment.

And that's when Reid's breath hitches and his eyes blink open – and Morgan has to fight not to jump back, like he's been caught. Reid watches him with enormous eyes, where he can still read a foggy, confused fear, as he struggles, still half-trapped in the dream – and Morgan stares straight back, finding Reid's eyes and pinning them with his own, looking at him, not letting him go. “Reid – it's me. It's Morgan,” he says, steady – and it seems to be working again, somehow – Reid's gaze seems to focus some more, and he breathes in, deep, like a man emerging from underwater.

And, just like that, he's awake. He doesn't shudder, he doesn't jolt upright – consciousness seeps back into him evenly, from the warmth of the lamp and the depth of Morgan's voice, keepers of the middle ground between sleep and wake.

“Hey,” says Reid, under his breath, and there is no uncertainty in his tone – no questions asked, no questions needed. (Perhaps, because – it's Morgan.) And it's all that Morgan can muster, too, as he tries to clear his head, to grab his thoughts and force them back into conventional paths.

“Hey,” Morgan replies. And he pulls back, slow, watching his hands – his fingers are still grasping the kid's arm, and Morgan, breathing deeply, just lets go – wondering exactly why he should be feeling that guilty. He guesses he shouldn't – but he does anyway.

“Are you – alright?” he asks, his voice low – all of a sudden, he doesn't know what to do with his hands. In some detached corner of his mind, he wishes he had pockets.

Reid just smiles up at him, his face a little drawn – a tiny, weary smile, but it is there. “Yeah,” it's all he says, and Morgan has to struggle not to snort out loud – because one-syllable answers from the kid are one of his prime alarm bells, and that satisfies his question well enough.

So he just watches, and wishes he could reach out somehow, with hands or words, he wishes there was something he could do that wouldn't feel out of line – he wonders why he should suddenly feel so awkward, standing barefoot beside Reid's bed, in the silent shadows. Then the kid stretches, stirring under the covers, his smile growing a little more genuine, and God, his hair really is a mess – and the corners of Morgan's mouth twitch upward, and things do not feel so wrong anymore.

“Goodnight, then,” is all he needs to say, and quietly walks back to his bed – he leans down, and once again stares at the dark ceiling, as he hears the soft sounds of Reid settling back to sleep – the odd creak from the springs, the occasional rustle of covers. And when he closes his eyes, he can almost admit that he listens to Reid's breath, this time – to the way it gets slower, and even, undisturbed, now – almost, but not quite. And for some time, Morgan remains awake, listening in secret, trying to find a way across intricate thoughts he is not quite ready to understand – balancing himself on the foggy middle ground traced between shadow and light.

To be continued...

P.s.: I apologise for the lack of updates, the delay in writing sequels and being ages behind in reading fics. My studies are taking up all of my time, but fandom love is still alive, and I will be back. ♥.

[masterlist]: Resources

2009-10-25T18:05:18Z

[mood| accomplished]

[   Resources Masterlist   ]

brushes    |    textures    |    screencaps    |    tutorials

            + textures

x-cielogris
77words
spookyzangel
endlessdeep
yunyunsarang
ethenyl
generosa
chambertin
rainetemplar
silent-broken-wish
celestial-star
aethereality
celestial-star
icon_textures
texturize
spooky_window
colorfilter
x_heavenly_x
tiger_tutorials
italian_jewels
blooming_heart

            + brushes

100x100_brushes
celestial-star
annikavonholdt
aethereality
discolore
mutsie_brushes
colorfilter
mata090680
damned in black
graficamente
rough_draft___
giuseppe-dalessio.it
brushes.deviantart.com
fbrushes.com
paperlilies
punksafetypin
scully7491

            + screencaps / stock

cap_it
celestial-star
annikavonholdt
aethereality
foto_decadent
aoibhe [criminal minds]
gabbiano_reale [criminal minds]
oracle of quantico [criminal minds]
dj_capslock

            + tutorials

coloring_help
good_tutorial
icon_tutorial
tiger_tutorials
photoshopsupport.com
tutorio.com
matthom.com
grrliz_icons
melian_eresseie

[icons]: criminal minds - the girls + reid + bonus!

2009-10-06T13:44:26Z

[mood| sick]

• free to take
• credit would be lovely. copy/paste "by <lj user="lagolindari">"
• comments are ♥.
• 46 icons - the Girls! Elle, Garcia, JJ, Prentiss + Reid + Bonus! Reid/JJ, Hotch/Prentiss, Morgan/Prentiss
• screencaps by aoibhe, gabbiano_reale, Oracle of Quantico

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33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46

previous icons posts: HERE

[ficlet]: in the clear air

2009-09-28T09:33:48Z

[mood| rawr]

Title: In the clear air
Author: lagolindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid.
Rating: PG
Summary: "Did you know that prostitutes have business cards?"
Note: coda for the episodes 2x22 - Legacy.
Note 2: Apparently, I deleted this fic by mistake, with all your lovely comments :(. Re-posting with my apologies!

Morgan sneaked a glance at Reid, who was smiling quietly as they walked out of the police station. He was all too glad be finished. He could take gruesome – but even he had his limits, and this case had pushed him long past them. Morgan was in a bad need of a distraction – and, luckily for him, there was one Dr. Spencer Reid handy.

"So, Reid," Morgan said, casually, "Was that true?"

Reid kept rummaging in his bag, frowning when his hair fell in front of his face. He shook his head, trying to clear it away. "What do you mean?" he replied, distract.

"What Hotch was saying. Did you really get propositioned by every prostitute you talked to?" Morgan said.

"Yeah. Pretty much," Reid shrugged, giving up his search. He tried to smooth his hair down with both hands, battling against the cool breeze, and didn't really succeed. He didn't elaborate further.

"But – what did they do?” Morgan nagged, not giving up. “Winking? Allusive talking?"

"Well, they were actually rather explicit. Verbally, I mean," Reid said, thoughtful. "A couple seemed overly fascinated with my tie, and I'm pretty sure one tried to feel up my... you know," he paused to clear his throat, looking away,. Morgan generously decided not to comment on the kid's blush. "Lower back. I mean – umh. My... behind."

Morgan nearly snorted. "So she tried to grope your ass?" he said, disbelieving. He planted his hands on his hips, muttering darkly. "God, I can't believe it."

Reid stopped, turning to face him. "Why? Is it that surprising?" he said. He looked at Morgan, suddenly uncertain, blinking against the sunlight. "I mean, it's their job. Didn't they – didn't they do it to you as well?"

"I – well. No. They didn't," Morgan said, and for an instant he vaguely wondered whether he should feel offended by that. He tossed the thought away. "Of course it's surprising. We're talking about Spencer Reid here. I mean – well, kid, look at you. You don't..."

Reid's gaze shifted to the ground. "Gee. Thanks for reminding me, Morgan," he said. He huddled into his green sweater, crossing his arms over his chest – Morgan could almost feel him withdraw into himself, as he seemed to shrink inside his clothes.

Morgan stared at him for one long instant, frowning in confusion. Then, he understood. "No. No, no, no, hey. Reid," he reached out to touch Reid's arm, just in time to prevent him from walking off. Reid stopped, but didn't look at him, the line of his lips unnaturally hard. "Reid, what I meant is that you don't look like the kinda guy who goes with prostitutes. Or needs them," Morgan said.

Reid looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “See who's talking. You sure don't look like you need them.”

“Yeah, but I do look like a dog. They should have flocked me,” Morgan replied, trying to hide his relief at the smile he saw peeking out on Reid's lips. He didn't let the kid's arm go. “Hey, kid, believe me when I say they can sense that a mile away! They can do their own profiling."

“I guess,” Reid conceded, glancing at him from under his lashes. His expression softened, and he couldn't hold back a chuckle. “I think they may like me because I look – you know. Inexperienced. I guess they like that.” He looked briefly at Morgan's hand, still resting near his elbow. He didn't move away. “I guess it makes them feel... in power.”

“Right. Or maybe, they like you because they can sense that you're burning hot stuff under that geek wear,” Morgan said. He struggled not to laugh at Reid's scandalised face. “But anyway, groping your ass? Come on, man. You're way too cute for that.”

Reid's mouth pretty much fell open. He blinked at Morgan, seeming uncertain between feeling surprised or affronted, and swallowed. “Did you – just call me cute?” he managed. Morgan winked, squeezing his arm, playful.

“You can bet that nice behind of yours I did,” he said. He generously did not remark on the 'hot stuff' part.

Reid snorted. “Okay. I'm not talking to you anymore,” he replied. He clutched his satchel's strap and walked on, completely failing to hide his blush – and Morgan followed close, grinning like a loon.

"Did you know that prostitutes have business cards?" Reid said eventually, breaking the silence, always the one who couldn't hold a grudge for long. He slowed down, waiting for Morgan to reach his side again.

“I thought you weren't talking to me,” Morgan teased. He decided not to push it, contented with their banter. "And how do you know?" he asked.

“One of them gave me hers,” replied Reid. He fished in his pockets, and pulled out a tiny cardboard square, turning it between his fingers. “She slipped it in my pocket. My pants pocket,” he said. Morgan stopped dead in his tracks.

“She did what?” he said. He looked at the kid with incredulous eyes. “Gimme that!” He snatched the card from Reid's hands and studied it, frowning. He found himself resisting a dishonourable urge to pout. “That's it, kid. From now on, I'm not letting you go home alone after dark.”

Reid's laughter rang soft and sweet, in the clear air.

[icons]: morgan/reid, criminal minds

2009-09-09T09:32:18Z

[mood| tired]

• free to take
• credit would be lovely. copy/paste "by <lj user="lagolindari">"
• comments are ♥.
• 40 icons - Morgan/Reid, Criminal Minds
• screencaps by aoibhe, gabbiano_reale, Oracle of Quantico

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

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25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

Check out my other Criminal Minds icons HERE!

[icons]: criminal minds - spencer reid

2009-09-03T19:19:37Z

[mood| duh]

• free to take
• credit would be lovely. copy/paste "by <lj user="lagolindari">"
• comments are ♥.
• 40 icons - Spencer Reid, Criminal Minds
• screencaps by aoibhe, gabbiano_reale, Oracle of Quantico

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

Check out my other Criminal Minds icons HERE!

[fic]: moments lost

2009-09-02T09:44:09Z

[mood| stressed]

Title: Moments lost
Author: lagolindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid.
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: A moment lost from criminal_prompt
Summary: “So, the hypnotiser woman,” Rossi began, conversationally, joining his hands. “This afternoon, she warned us that the memories brought back by sessions are most likely to resurface during sleep.”
Morgan eyed him inquisitively, one eyebrow shooting up. “So what?,” he asked, careful.
Note: coda for the episodes 4x06 - the instincts, 4x07 - memoriam.

Morgan was slouched on a fancy leather couch, right outside the studio of that hypnotiser woman. He stared darkly at the pale wooden door, drumming his fingers on the armrest, and trying to pretend there was nothing wrong with his heart rate.

He had meant to put up more resistance when Rossi had piped up and declared that he would go in with Reid. He really had. But a half-hearted - "Hey. I can do that," was all he'd managed to say, feeling way too childish for his own liking, and praying his anxiousness wouldn't show through. Rossi had critically eyed his crossed arms and tensed shoulders, and had seemed on the verge of actually grinning, almost condescending – Morgan had had to fight against the wild impulse to bloody deck the man.

Which, if he thought calmly about it, sort of confirmed Rossi was right. Sort of. Hell, alright, so maybe Morgan might have some problems with detachment and emotive reactions here – but he was only human, after all. And – and it was Reid, damn it.

"I'm sure you could. However, I think I'd prefer to do it. Just this one time," Rossi had said, his tone implying quite clearly that, rather than making a suggestion, he was informing Morgan of how things would be. He opened his mouth to protest, but Reid raised one hand and placed it on his arm, his touch so light Morgan could barely feel it.

"It's fine, Morgan," he'd said, his voice soft and his eyes gentle and vaguely distant as they met Morgan's. His fingers felt weightless and warm on Morgan's skin. "He can come. It will only be a few minutes, anyway."

And, with a tiny smile, his touch was gone and his gaze was slipping away, turning towards the floor as Reid clutched his satchel's strap. Morgan had felt something crumble soundlessly into his chest, as a spot of sore silence slowly crept up to replace it. He'd closed his eyes, as he raised one hand in surrender. "Alright. Alright. I'm gonna wait outside," he'd said, before walking to the couch and flopping down. "See? I'll be right here. Now go and have fun with your psycho tricks."

Reid had sort of smiled at the tiled floor, fidgeting, then had ventured into the studio. And Rossi – Rossi had shot Morgan one last, indecipherable look before he'd followed the kid and shut the door firmly. Morgan thought he could see a deep understanding nestled somewhere in his eyes, and sympathy, maybe – or maybe, Morgan was imagining it all, and Rossi could be one big son of a bitch when he wanted to.

His arm felt just a little too cold where the warmth of Reid's fingers had been.

Also, Morgan knew he was wrong to be angry.

Sort of.

---

At least ten minutes had passed already. Morgan picked up a random magazine from the nearby table, leafing aimlessly through the pages – he gave up soon enough and rolled it up, tapping it against his other hand, restless. He most certainly did not believe in hypnotism and psychic stuff and all that new age crap. But still – still, there was an elusive, sick-green feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach, whispering him that it couldn't possibly be healthy to mess around with a brain like Reid's. Morgan gave a frustrated sigh, and smacked his leg with the magazine. He had to get a grip, and calm the hell down – damn, his muscles were tense to the point of strain. He willed his shoulders to relax, and tried to ease the stiffness in his back.

Soft talking, too low to understand, had been going on for merely a couple of minutes when Morgan heard sudden commotion coming from inside the room. Was that supposed to happen - ? The woman's voice rose in volume, seeming to lose its coolness. Morgan thought he could detect a hint of fear in her tone. No, he decided, it couldn't be normal – something was definitely off. Morgan tried to reason with himself, focusing on the fact that Reid was in no kind of danger, and that nothing that could happen in a fucking hypnotherapy session would be even remotely comparable to what they had to face almost daily on their job...

Yet, he found himself frozen into place when he heard a distressed whimper, and it took him a few, astonished seconds before he could recognise Reid's voice in that sound – God, he'd never heard him sounding so small, so defenceless, except maybe –

And Morgan was on his feet, his instincts sweeping his reasoning away and happily telling it to fuck off somewhere else. He strode towards the door with every intention of smashing the goddamn thing down if that's what it took to get in there – and stopped mid-tracks as he heard Rossi's voice, hushed and on the verge of frantic, "Damn it, wake him up!"

Morgan splayed his hands on the thick wood in front of him, and struggled to maintain control as he heard the hypnotiser's voice take over, soothing despite the edge of urgency. Fuck. He couldn't just burst in – it might mess with that hypnosis shit, maybe send Reid into shock. Or was that somnambulism? He shook his head, trying to clear off the irrational thoughts that kept sprouting in his overexcited mind. He held stiff and tried to breathe evenly, his gaze just about to burn holes in the sodding door, as he heard a confused rustling – and then Rossi was murmuring, repeating - "It's okay. It's okay, Reid – it's okay." After a few seconds, Morgan thought he could hear Reid's voice as well, sounding a little shaky but nowhere as distraught as it had been before – and soon the voices grew even, and settled in the pattern of an average conversation.

Morgan breathed in deeply, and it took him a conscious effort to step away from the door and go back to sit stiffly on the couch, resting his arms on his knees. When he looked down, his hands were shaking. Sort of.

Morgan gripped his jean-clad knees so hard his fingers bloody hurt - and forced himself to just calm down, his jaw set, hard.

---

Also – also, it was Reid.

Morgan slumped lower in the armchair, rubbing at his eyes. The lounge's lights were dim, and the music in the background was soothing, that kind of washed down jazz that seemed to naturally belong in hotel bars and waiting rooms. It wasn't, however, doing much to soothe the throbbing ache he could feel in his head, behind his tired eyelids. He groaned, and wished he'd indulged that whiskey craving that had got to him as he placed his order. He peeked at the soda still untouched on his table, and did not call for the waitress.

It was Reid. Not even one full week before, Morgan had almost sent a coffee mug crashing to the floor in a victim family's house, as Reid's screaming tore the night air. Morgan had sprinted towards the living room, and thrown himself at Reid's side – and Reid's eyes, when he'd jolted awake, the way he'd looked at him –

Reid had been screaming his name. His name. He'd been trembling in Morgan's arms with the aftershocks of the dream, for the briefest instants before the victim's parents rushed downstairs and Morgan had to step away – but it had been enough. When Morgan had gone back to sit with him, he'd kept his distance. His arms, his hands had been throbbing with the need to reach out and touch him – but he hadn't.

Morgan leaned back, and tried not to groan. Maybe Rossi was right. He did not have the objectivity to deal with Reid, not right now. And, if he tried to be honest and as ruthless as he could be with himself – he was a profiler, he was trained to do just so, to understand what someone didn't want to admit - he'd been walking on that thin line for some time. Quite some time.

When he'd walked out of the room, Reid had been pale, his hands unsteady. Rossi was standing just one step closer than he normally would have – Morgan's profiler instinct had detected that without him even trying. He had felt a sharp pang, somewhere in his chest – Reid was his to protect. His... duty? His...

He closed his eyes. He just couldn't do this. Or could he? It was getting harder to understand what he himself was thinking – maybe, he didn't even want to. Could he trust himself with something that delicate? Could he trust himself – with Reid?

“Hey. How about swapping that soda for a decent drink?”

Morgan's eyes snapped open as Rossi placed two whiskey on the rocks on the small table, before taking place on a luscious couch nearby, seeming utterly at ease. Morgan eyed him, then the glass, somewhere between suspicion and approval.

“Thanks, man. I wonder how you even knew,” he said. Rossi made a noncommittal noise, which sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

“Well, I could hear you thinking all the way from the bar.”

Morgan couldn't help but shake his head, as a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.”Well, you are one darn good profiler then. Thank you,” he said. He shifted on the cushion, leaning slightly forward, in a way he knew would indicate that he was open to conversation – he was still detached enough to recognise that his earlier harshness towards the man was a product of his own conflicted emotions. He didn't touch his glass, though.

Rossi just looked at him for some time, as if trying to decide what kind of approach he should go for. Eventually, he snorted, then slouched further down in the couch, deciding on 'blunt'. "You know, you should try and realise that you're not the only one who cares for Reid around here," he said, calm. Morgan's head shot up, his eyes wide.

“ I – what?” he stammered. Sort of - Derek Morgan did not, by definition, stammer. He didn't manage to finish the sentence, gaping at Rossi in mild bewilderment.

The man smiled, as gently as possible. “I respect you, Derek. Therefore, I believe you know very well what I'm talking about.” He said. “We all want to keep him safe, Morgan.”

Morgan blinked, raising his hands as if trying to reject what was being said – then he sighed, and nodded, slow. “Yeah. I know. Honest – I do know. I just – ” he leaned his arms on his legs, letting his head drop forward. “Instincts and reason don't always listen to each other.”

“ I understand that. And I'm not blaming you for your instinct: protectiveness is admirable. I do admire you for this.” He paused, folding his hands in his lap. “All I'm trying to say is that you don't have to feel like this responsibility lies on your shoulders alone. We all want to take care of the team, and we all want to take care of Reid,” he said, as he met Morgan's gaze, and held it, steady. “You just need to learn to trust us with that.”

Morgan snorted a half-laugh. “You know, sometimes – I'm not even sure I trust myself.”

“ That's why we are a team,” Rossi said, leaning forward to directly face Morgan. “Because where one fears to fail, he may be able to trust the others.”

“Yeah,” Morgan said, as he rubbed his hands, idly. “And – I just need to learn to trust you with that.”

Rossi lifted his glass, taking a sip, then lay comfortably back. “And there is no time limit for you to do that. I just – felt the need to remind you that you are not alone in this.” He paused. “None of us are.”

He remained in silence, observing the way Morgan's shoulders seemed to slowly relax, the way his brow seemed to grow smoother. After a few minutes, he even began absently tapping his finger on the armrest on time with the music, occasionally eyeing the table. Still, he didn't touch his glass. Rossi suppressed a grin.

“So, the hypnotiser woman,” he began, conversationally, joining his hands. “This afternoon, she warned us that the memories brought back by sessions are most likely to resurface during sleep.”

Morgan eyed him inquisitively, one eyebrow shooting up. “So what?,” he asked, careful.

“So, maybe he doesn't need to be alone right now,” Rossi replied, and Morgan thought he could read the hint of an affectionate smile hidden somewhere in the slight crook of his lips. “Maybe you should be there. I believe our kid could do with some support right now.”

Morgan hesitated and instant before speaking. “Right.” He shifted in his seat. “I just – he didn't seem too keen on – you know,” his hands tightened, as he refrained from pointing at himself. Rossi pretended he didn't notice. “You really think he needs – this?”

Rossi bent forward to place his glass back on the table. “Let's just say detachment may not always be what a person needs,” he said, searching for Morgan's eyes. “Nor what a person wants. No matter what they say.”

Morgan couldn't hold back a chuckle. “Well, we of all people should know that,” he said.

“True indeed,” replied Rossi. “Then, I guess you will shut up and go, now.”

The corner of Morgan's mouth turned upwards in the tiniest grin. “I guess I'll do that,” he said. He waited just a moment too long before standing up. “Thanks, man.”

Rossi settled peacefully on the couch, and brought his feet to rest on the little table. “No problem,” he said.

---

Morgan hesitated, alone in the silent corridor. He resisted the urge to pace on the dusty carpet, as he considered whether he should knock one second time. No sound came from inside the room. The kid had probably gone to bed already – well, damn. Perhaps he should just forget about it all, and -

And then, the door opened, and a sleepy and rumpled Doctor Reid appeared in the doorway, blinking in the cold light. “Hey,” he croaked, looking at Morgan with a vaguely interrogative gaze.

“Hey,” Morgan replied. Whatever he'd planned to say seemed to have disappeared, skittering smoothly down the white, vaguely depressing hallway – so he remained quiet. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and tried not to feel stupid.

Reid cleared his throat. “So, umh... did you – need something..?” He prompted. His arms went reflexively to cross around his chest – Morgan suppressed a smile at the sight of the faded t-shirt and loose tracksuit bottoms the kid was wearing. Curious how he never had considered this – he certainly wasn't expecting Reid to sleep in corduroys and a button down shirt. Well, the kid sure looked good out of his usual geek wear, and – oh. Now, that was probably a wrong line of thought.

Morgan shook his head, trying to clear off the very inappropriate images that were suddenly popping up in his mind. “Yeah, I – sorry about that. I didn't wake you up, did I?”

“No, of course not,” said Reid, a little too quickly. He looked down, seemingly very interested in the carpet, and Morgan hardly managed not to roll his eyes. “I mean, I wasn't really – I was just, you know. Dreaming. Sort of.” He said. He stepped aside, seeming a little more awake. “So, uh. Would you like to come in?"

"Yeah. Thank you," Morgan said. Then, he hesitated. "Unless you'd rather – you know..."

"No, no, it's fine," Reid almost blurted. Morgan thought he could hear a hint of relief in his voice. Maybe, the kid really didn't need to be alone right now. Reid seemed about to add something, then settled on a shy smile instead. Morgan smiled back, warm, and stepped inside.

"Please, just – umh. Take a seat. Or something," Reid said, almost tripping into a rug as he stumbled to clear the armchair from his go-bag and a few discarded clothes. He stood holding them for a few seconds, before he settled on dumping the armful on the drawers chest. Morgan shook his head, chuckling, then obediently sat down. “Thanks.”

“It's no problem,” Reid said. He turned to rummage through the heap of clothing, fishing out a purplish sweater vest. As he worked on turning it right side out, and subsequently fumbled with the buttons he hadn't bothered undoing to take it off, Morgan let his gaze wander through the room, feeling oddly at peace already.

The bed-sheets were rumpled, the way only a good deal of tossing and turning, or a number of rounds of heated sex can make them. For some reason, Morgan felt confident he knew which cause to pinpoint this time. Hell, he couldn't even picture the kid doing that kind of – oh. Maybe he sort of could, after all. And that – that was definitely a wrong line of thought.

He shifted, trying to focus on the rest of the room – on anything else, in fact. The main light had been switched off, and two big lamps cast a warm light among the shadows. When Reid noticed his scan, he gestured towards the main switch – and Morgan was quick to stop him. “No, it's alright. I don't mind.”

The kid went to sit on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the sleeves of his cardigan. Morgan found himself strangely entranced by the way his hands were moving – and realised with a little delay how the silence was stretching, the kid growing more skittish by the second. Then, before Morgan could come up with something to say, Reid blurted, “I've been meaning to apologise. For – the way I acted today.” He brushed an unruly strand out of his eyes. “ Well, these past few days. I know it's been – I've been, well. A pain, to say the least. It's just – you know,” he waved a hand, conveying abstract patterns in the air. “So... I'm sorry.”

Morgan smiled. “Hey – you don't need to apologise, kid. This thing's gotta be tough on you. Meeting your dad after all these years, the accusations, the dreams – all those memories, coming back up... that's a helluva lot of stress there.”

“Yeah. I guess so,” said Reid, with a stretched smile.

“There is one thing I don't get,” said Morgan after a moment, leaning back in the chair. “If I can ask. I thought – well, I thought you remembered everything. With that...” he paused, as he spotted Reid staring at him with an air of amused expectancy. Morgan repressed a grin, and gave the kid what he wanted. “That photographic memory of yours.”

“It's called eidetic, Morgan,” Reid contentedly interrupted, almost giggling. Morgan looked at him, and distantly thought he really liked the way the kid's face brightened up. Also, he really liked when it was his doing.

“Yeah. That's what I said, kid,” he replied, feeling a warm smile tug at the corners of his mouth at the familiar banter. “So, how come you forgot...?”

Reid's smile dimmed a little, and he lowered his gaze, thoughtful. “Truth is, I'm not quite sure myself,” he said, considering. “I just don't understand. My memory, it's usually flawless, yet my childhood – all those lost moments. I can't seem to – ” he rubbed at his forehead, frowning. “I only have these random flashbacks, usually after something triggers them. Like in dreams, or – or when...” he paused, and a haunted shadow seemed to pass over his face. Morgan felt his stomach tighten, and did not comment. He knew. “And then, the ones from the session, today. Now that they're back, the images seem to be hanging somewhere at the back of my mind, almost as if, you know... waiting.”

“Waiting?” Morgan enquired. “For what?”

Reid's smile was shy. “For me to close my eyes, I guess.” He scrunched his nose up, looking decidedly unhappy. “I'm not particularly keen on sleeping right now.”

“I can understand that,” Morgan said. He lowered his gaze, apparently examining his watch. He didn't comment further.

“So,” Reid said eventually, hesitantly breaking the silence. His voice had the slightest trace of uncertainty to it. “If you don't mind me asking, exactly why are you...?”

Morgan shifted, folding his hands. He cleared his throat. “Rossi told me what the... the hypnotiser woman said. About the memories. And – the dreams.”

Reid looked at him, seemingly not very convinced. “Right,” he said, cautious. He eyed Morgan, his brow furrowed in mild confusion. “And...?”

And, all of a sudden, under Reid's timorous gaze, Morgan wasn't so sure he knew anymore – and, at the same time, he knew all too well. He opened his mouth, and found himself unable to answer. Yeah – exactly, what the hell he was doing? How was he planning on helping Reid – assuming the kid needed or wanted his help at all?

He stared at Reid for a few, stretched seconds, uneasy, before he lowered his gaze, and made to get up. “You know, maybe – I should just go.”

“No, no. I – I didn't mean...” Reid was quick to say. Morgan stopped, mid-movement, and looked at him. The kid shot him a quick look from under his lashes, his hands tightening. He seemed to be struggling with words. “Just – would you mind... could you...?” He half-asked, almost under his breath. He squirmed, uneasy, trying to avoid Morgan's eyes.

And that was all Morgan needed. “Well, kid,” he said, grinning, as he slumped comfortably back in the chair. “Looks like you're gonna have a Derek Morgan night after all. Got any plans?”

---

It was Reid.

Morgan sat, slouched on the poorly straightened sheets, his back propped up against the headboard. He stared vaguely into the half-darkness, his arms loosely crossed on his chest – listening. And there was Reid, curled up beside him, his head resting on two piled up pillows and one hand absently tucked under his chin – his voice the only sound to be heard, soft and steady in the silence of the room. He was holding a battered book in hand, and was currently reading of how Billy Pilgrim was confined into the Dresden slaughterhouse which would be his shelter from the fire.

When he paused, at the end of the chapter, Morgan could feel him stirring, then the soft thump of the book dropping on the covers. He glanced to the side, just in time to catch the kid as he failed to stifle a huge yawn, his hand going to cover his mouth before coming to rest on the cushion. Morgan craned his neck to get a better look, and couldn't hold back a smile when he found Reid's eyes were closed.

“Hey, kid,” he said, keeping his voice low. “You wanna get some sleep?”

Reid mumbled, adjusting himself on the mattress. “No. 'm just resting my eyes a momen'.” he said.

“Well, this looks a lot like falling asleep to me,” Morgan couldn't help but tease, amused at the way Reid pouted in response. “We may never know what will happen to old Billy then.”

“I said I'm not,” Reid protested. He didn't bother opening his eyes, though. “And you've read Slaughterhouse 5 already. I could continue, though, if you like,” he offered.

Morgan chuckled. “Reid, you can't even hold the book up,” he replied.

“Don't need it,” Reid muttered. “Can remember. Just – need to rest a minute...”

“Alright. Alright,” Morgan surrendered, playfully. He shifted to turn slightly on his side, making it easier to look at the kid. “Rest your eyes all you want. I'm right here.”

Reid seemed to have inched closer, just barely. Morgan could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Thank you,” the kid murmured, almost too soft to hear. Morgan's lips curved in a silent smile.

“You're welcome,” he replied.

And Morgan remained awake, as he felt Reid's body relax, his breath growing deep and even, and the night unfolded, slow. There were, apparently, no dreams. The kid seemed to slump towards Morgan, leaning in closer while curling up tighter in his sleep, until his forehead was brushing against the letters tattooed on Morgan's arm. Reid's skin was warm.

For the briefest instant, he wondered if Reid would know - if he would remember. Or if it would all disappear, too, among the fog of his strayed memories - of all those moments lost.

Morgan looked at him, in silence, and found he couldn't help but breath him in – Reid's hair smelled like shampoo, faint cinnamon and – and Reid. He reached with one hand, slow, to brush the kid's hair out of his face – then leaned forward, just enough to lay a kiss on the top of Reid's head, between his tousled locks. “I'm not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Also, Morgan knew he was wrong to feel what he was feeling now. Whatever that be.

Sort of.

.

[icons]: criminal minds

2009-08-18T18:38:54Z

[mood| duh]

• free to take
• credit would be lovely. copy/paste "by <lj user="lagolindari">"
• comments are ♥.
• 40 icons - Criminal Minds, made for various challenges.
• screencaps by aoibhe, gabbiano_reale, Oracle of Quantico

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Challenge banners: (some still missing)

Check my previous Criminal Minds icons, HERE! (Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid)

[fic]: one time too many [part 1]

2009-08-03T22:59:29Z

[mood| quiet]

Title: One time too many [part 1]
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Agent down! from criminal_prompt
Summary: Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised. [...] And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday – he would do it one time too many.
Note: some clichés are just begging to be written. I know. :)

Spencer Reid was, notoriously, a genius.

He had an IQ of 187, supposedly higher than Einstein's, and graduated from high school when he was twelwe. He could decipher riddles with an almost annoying lack of effort, and thwart or conceive the most complex, subtle of plans. He could read twenty thousand words per minute, and remember word by word of pretty much anything he'd read with that photographic memory of his.

("It's called eidetic, Morgan."

"That's what I said, kid.")

Morgan could still remember one night they'd spent on the jet – flying back home. He sat fiddling with his watch, bored after his Ipod had run out of battery, too worked up to sleep – and he'd met Reid's gentle smile across the half-darkness. He'd gone to sit with him, and something in his eyes must have given him away – Reid had curled up in a corner of the sofa, and had recited him the first few chapters of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five. His voice was low and soothing, and Morgan had found himself smiling and quietly drifting off about the time Billy Pilgrim stood in his garden, waiting for the Trafalmadorians' flying saucer to come.

(Reid had never mentioned it afterwards, but, for a few days – his smile had seemed, if possible, even warmer than usual.)

Reid was lecturing students that were often older than he was – maybe that was why he always ended up complaining they didn't get his jokes. He wrote brilliant papers on every subject that struck his fancy, and was currently working on his umpteenth degree in some overly-intellectual subject.

(It was his third, and it was in philosophy. Also, Reid was currently vehemently arguing with Plato on the allegorical significance of some cave myth. Not that Morgan would ever admit he knew all this – or that he would, from time to time, ask Garcia to hack into the university database to check on Reid's progression. Just to make sure the kid had enough time to study, that was.)

So, yes: all considered, Morgan had to concede that the kid was, indeed, a genius.

And yet, sometimes – Spencer Reid was an idiot.

---

"Donald, put the gun down. Please," Reid's voice chided, gentle. "I promise no one will harm you."

Morgan could hear ragged breathing in the background, as a sizzling silence stretched for the following seconds. He pressed his earpiece as deep as it would go, trying to block every other sound as he swiftly moved along the corridor, heading for the hotel room where Hotch and Reid had the Unsub cornered.

"This place is a fucking labyrinth," muttered one of the SWAT guys following him – and Morgan almost snarled in his face, growling "Shut up!," as he heard an unknown, shaky voice speak, a little muffled by the distance.

"I can't. I have to – I need..."

The following words were drowned by a static. Morgan barely refrained from swearing aloud.

"Donald – you don't want to do this," Reid said, soothing. "I know that you feel like there is no other option – like you will never feel better again. But I swear to God, if you put the gun down – I'll help you. We'll find the help you need. You have to believe – that you can make it."

The static crackled. "No one can help me," the Unsub whimpered. He sounded very young, very scared, and most likely under the effects of a drug of sort. Straining, Morgan could hear a faint click – like someone unlocking the safety of a gun. He felt something that was cold and sharp run down his back, like an icy worm crawling its way under his skin.

"You don't wanna die, Donald," Reid almost pleaded. And Morgan - Morgan suddenly remembered.

---

"He's sending out mixed messages. It's weird," had commented Reid, staring at the billboard and chewing lightly on his bottom lip. "If we profile the notes he left on the crime scenes and his private emails, what we get is the portrait of an individual with overwhelming suicidal tendencies, not a killer."

"Considering the level of obsession he shows in his writing, if he was really suicidal, he would have killed himself a long time ago," Morgan had replied, skimming through the papers scattered on the table. "This doesn't make any sense."

Reid's eyes had narrowed. "It's almost as if - on some level, he wants to die, but he is too afraid to actually kill himself."

"So maybe that's why he's targeting males with a body structure that's definitely stronger than the average," Morgan had said. "Maybe he's hoping one of them will fight back and kill him. A sort of indirect, passive-aggressive suicide."

"Maybe," had said Reid, slow, without tearing his eyes from the board. He had frowned. "Maybe, he wants someone to stop him."

---

Morgan felt his knees go weak as was hit by the realization, hard and sudden like a punch in the guts – and it was at once clear that he wasn't the only one to have made the connection.

"He's gonna make us shoot him," exclaimed Hotch, and his words resounded into Morgan's earpiece like a death sentence. Burning sweat broke out on his forehead, his back, as he heard Rossi yelling something in the distance –

"Reid, get out of there!" he shouted, causing the SWAT guys to jump in surprise. No answer.

"Donald. You don't have to," said Reid's voice, gentle.

"I have no choice," the Unsub replied, almost apologetic. And then –

("Oh God," whispered Prentiss, somewhere in the building,)

– Morgan could hear a gunshot, hitting his ear-drum like a blow – and right after, chaos exploded in his earpiece, deafening him with yells and shots and loud thumps. Morgan tried to swallow.

He could not hear Reid's voice.

---

An utter, complete idiot.

Like, for example, that time he tried to talk down a crazed delusional boy who was holding a rifle almost as big as a goddamn machine gun – and he actually succeeded, for God's sake. Or the time he thrusted his gun into Morgan's hands and walked to face a man loaded with explosives, armed with nothing but his speech. Or when he went to stand between the team and an armed killer, without even wearing a damn vest, trying to prevent them from shooting...

"You'll have to accept the fact," Morgan had said, always the big brother, so wise and experienced, so stuck up his own ass – God, how he wanted to kick himself when he thought about it – "That we can't save everyone." Reid had nodded, then, had said he understood, but Morgan, deep down, knew – Reid may have acknowledged it, but that didn't mean he'd started believing it just yet.

Morgan could, on some level, understand. The feeling of being expendable, maybe – of having to demonstrate he could actually help, he could make a difference. Somehow, maybe Reid was still trying to prove that he was worthy of the position he held, that his brain could be an asset out in the field as well.

Or, maybe, Reid simply didn't want to see people die. And Morgan could understand that, too – but, honestly, he was freaking tired of risking a heart attack every time. Over the years, he'd learned that, if you couldn't save everyone, you had to get your priorities straight. And, if the choice was between Reid and the psycho of the moment – it was simply a no-brainer.

Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised, relying only in his voice and brain – because, deep down, he still wanted to believe that reasoning and talking should always be enough.

And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday – he would do it one time too many.

---

Morgan was hurrying through the corridors when the shots died out, and the noises calmed down enough to let him hear Hotch, calling - "Clear!" And then, louder – the closest to yelling he'd ever heard him – "Agent down! Send up the medics - I got an agent down!"

"Hotch!" He barked, as he nearly rammed in the wall a policeman who hadn't moved promptly enough out of his way. "Status! What the hell happened there?"

There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the line. "Morgan," Hotch said finally, his voice calm and strained. "Get over here." He paused for an instant before he added, almost under his breath – "Make it fast."

And Morgan ran. He got to goddamn room 207 with his head throbbing and his lungs on fire, striding past the SWAT guys that cluttered the doorway. He quickly surveyed the room, panting, and spared a quick glance to a body, strewn across the floor, which was clearly the Unsub and which was also rather clearly dead. You got what you wanted, at last, you son of a bitch, he thought vaguely, and then – then, he saw Reid.

He was slumped against the wall, half-seated, one of his long legs bent. He was trying fruitlessly to hold himself up with one arm – Morgan could see the way his hand kept slipping on the tiled floor, his elbow threatening to give way. Hotch was crouching beside him, holding him by the shoulders, preventing him from falling sideways.

"Sorry," he heard Reid say, his voice thin. "Hotch – I thought I could..."

He stopped, blinking slowly, and leaned his head back against the wall. Hotch gripped his shoulders harder. "It's alright. Now, you just keep looking at me. You – Morgan, get over here, now."

Morgan had to fight not to throw himself at Reid's side, forcing himself to kneel slowly. (Stay calm. Just – remain calm.) He swallowed as he scanned Reid's body, trying to assess the damage – trying desperately to detach his mind from the fact that it was Reid, damn it. Reid, who was pressing one hand against his stomach – Morgan hissed as he saw dark blood, trickling through his fingers. It had already soaked part of his cardigan and was now dripping slowly on the floor, starting to pool at Reid's side.

“What happened?” Morgan asked, stupidly, and couldn't quite prevent his voice from sounding strangled.

Hotch looked at him briefly. “The Unsub had time to shoot before we brought him down,” he said, his jaw set, hard. “Hold him. I'll get something to try and slow the bleeding. Keep him talking.”

Morgan brought his hands to Reid's shoulders, steadying him as Hotch slowly released his grip and moved away. Reid opened his eyes, and his gaze seemed to take longer than usual to focus on Morgan's face – he swallowed, then let out a soft moan. Morgan felt like someone had smacked him right across the face.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice husky. His brain felt goddamn puffy, and was just refusing to think straight. “Looks like you got yourself in another mess. I'm getting tired of this habit of yours, you know.”

Reid's lips twitched in the smallest, pained grin. “Know. 'M sorry,” he mumbled. “Thought I could – help him.”

“It's alright, kid. You did good.” Morgan shifted closer, adjusting his grip on Reid's arms. He stared straight into Reid's eyes, trying to force a smile out. “You do something like this again, though, I'm smacking you.”

Reid actually snorted a half-attemp to a laugh. “I'm counting – on it,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, wetting his lips, as his chest heaved. “Reid,” Morgan called – as Hotch crouched back down with a small curtain he'd all but ripped off its rings. He pressed it against Reid's abdomen, causing him to hiss in pain, with a sharp breath. When Reid looked back at Morgan, his eyes seemed clouded.

“Reid,” Morgan called, fighting the urge to shake him. “Kid, listen to me. You gotta stay awake. Reid – ” Reid's head was slowly lolling forward, as he struggled to remain conscious. Morgan brought one hand to brush Reid's hair away from his face, then cupped his cheek, helping him remain upright. He felt Reid lean heavily against his touch, his eyes half-closed, his lips almost gray. His skin felt cold.

“Reid. Come on, stay with me, man,” Morgan said, as he tried frantically to think of something which would help. A sudden, crazy inspiration sparkled in his mind – God, maybe he'd gone insane. Or maybe he was starting to get the hang of this genius thing. “Reid. Reid,” he called, raising his voice to get his attention. “Prime numbers. Count for me. Can you do it?”

He saw Reid swallow, his lips moving silently as he tried to speak. He wet his lips, then seemed to focus once again on Morgan's eyes. “Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven...” he started, slow. His voice was barely audible, but steady. “Thirteen. Seventeen – nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one.”

“That's it. Talk to me, kid,” Morgan urged. He could feel commotion somewhere outside the room, and he prayed fervently that the medics were there at goddamn last.

“Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven – ” Reid whispered. He had to pause, struggling for breath, and leaned further against Morgan's hand. Their gazes met, and they stared into each other's eyes for a few, endless seconds, as Reid breathed hard, fighting to remain awake – Reid's eyes burning with effort, Morgan's wide in incredulous fear.

“M'rgan,'” Reid managed to get out, between gritted teeth. “'m sorry. So s'rry.” And then, as a gleamy stain of blood appeared on the inside of his pale lips, he breathed – “F'rgive me.”

Morgan's chest tightened so hard he thought he would bloody choke. “It's alright. Kid – Reid, it's alright,” he said, stroking his thumb over Reid's cheekbone, trying to keep his voice even. “You're gonna be fine. Just – stay with me. Keep talking, kid.”

Reid closed his eyes and, for a dreadful, irrational moment - Morgan thought he was gone. Then, Reid's lips started moving, as he formed words that were almost too soft to hear. “Fifty-three. Fifty-nine. Sixty-one.”

“That's it. Stay with me, kid,” Morgan whispered. “You're doing great. Go on.”

“Sixty-seven. Seventy-one. Seventy-three. Seventy-nine...” Morgan held his breath as he listened to Reid's thin voice – and that's when the medics bursted into the room, and pushed him and Hotch firmly to the side, (You can let go, sir. Let go, now,) calling at each other as they lowered the stretcher and maneuvered Reid with experienced hands, guiding him to lie down –

(Eighty-three. Eighty-nine. Ninety-seven. One hundred one. One hundred three. One hundred seven)

– drowning Reid's faint voice in a chaos of information as they estimated the damage and got ready to leave. Morgan's eyes remained fixed on Reid's lips, reading the numbers as he kept counting, obediently, even as his eyes slid shut –

(One hundred nine. One hundred thirteen. One hundred twenty-seven. One hundred thirty-one. One hundred thirty-seven...)

– until the medics wheeled him out of the room, followed close by a Hotch with hard eyes and bloodied hands. And Morgan was left in an unbelieving daze for one long moment, as he stood alone in a corner of the room, near a small puddle of blood smeared on the floor – a bloodied curtain crumpled by his side, and prime numbers still resounding in his head.

---

To be continued...

[fic]: Maybe, a little similar to love

2009-07-17T21:47:00Z

[mood| uber-busy]

Title: Maybe, a little similar to love
Autore: Lago Lindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG
Summary: "Will you stop that!" Reid snapped, causing Morgan's mouth to clamp shut in surprise. "I've had enough of this - this attitude that you - that everyone keeps giving me, like I'm -"
Note: follows episode 4x24, Amplification.

Morgan had lost count of how long he'd remained there - seated down under the cold neon lights, trying to find a comfortable position on the stiff chair - looking at Reid. Reid, who lay quietly under the crumpled bed sheets, his head resting on the pale pillows as he slept - hair tousled, smudged bruises around his eyes; Reid, whose cheeks had regained some colour, and who was alive and warm and breathing on his own. Yes, Morgan could not remember how much time he'd spent mapping Reid's features, memorising the creases around his mouth when he pursed his lips in his sleep, the way his fingers rested on the covers. Yet, somehow - it didn't seem like a long time at all.

And, when Reid stirred and mumbled something soft and unintelligible, before he squinted his eyes open, blinking against the light - Morgan just leaned forward and smiled, the tiredness and aches long gone. "Hey, kid," he said, and couldn't help a chuckle when Reid mumbled - "What - no JellO this time?," a disappointed frown appearing on his face.

Morgan shook his head, slow, unable to wipe the smile off his face. "Not this time, no," he pretended to think about it for a moment, tapping one finger on his chin. "I'll get you some as soon as Doc says it's alright. All the JellO you can eat."

Reid eyed him with mock suspicion. "Promise?"

"Depends if you behave, kid, and get well soon," replied Morgan, and was rewarded by a tiny grin appearing on Reid's lips. He didn't reply, though, grimacing as he shifted under the sheets - then lay in silence, looking back at Morgan - a soft, quiet smile hovering on his face.

"Have you - been here all along?" he murmured, eventually, and Morgan hesitated just an instant before nodding.

"Yeah. Garcia's been here, too, while you were out - told me to give you love and kisses for her when you came round," he said.

Reid actually chuckled, narrowly avoiding a coughing fit in the process. "So will you?," he asked.

Morgan tried to look innocent. "Will I what?"

Reid pouted. "I'll tell her you didn't, if you don't" he said, sounding, for once, as young as he actually was. Morgan grinned.

"You wouldn't."

Reid managed to grin back, although it took him a little too long before he managed to speak. "You know I would... I'm evil."

"Well, I would never wanna go up against an evil genius," Morgan said, and stood up, stretching his back before he stepped to stand at Reid's side. He leaned forward, tipping his head down so he could meet Reid's eyes. He hesitated, then let his hand come up to brush Reid's forehead, pushing his locks to the side. "You're hair's a disaster," he said, his voice low and, to his relief, not too shaky.

Reid looked up at him, his lips curved in the slightest, tired smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Morgan paused, as he let his thumb rub lightly on Reid's skin, wandering down to his temple, his cheekbone. "Hey, kid," he murmured. "You scared the hell outta me, you know."

A cross mix between embarassment and guilt passed on Reid's face. "I'm sorry," he said, sheepish, his voice small. Morgan wanted to smile, but, for some reason, found that he just couldn't.

He leaned forward, until his lips hovered just inches from Reid's skin. He hesitated, shunned by the sudden sensation that those moments, that instant, might held some secret, desperate importance he couldn't quite put his finger on. And Morgan tried to think of words that would explain, words that would clear that sudden, heavy fog of feelings clouding his mind, pooling in the pit of his stomach, but - somehow - they failed him.

"Baby boy," he breathed, then pressed a slow, soft kiss to Reid's forehead. When he pulled back, Reid's eyes were shimmering and, through the thick haze of unnamed, complicated things crowding his head - Morgan decided to ignore the fact that his own might be, too.

It was a gentle, firm voice to snap him back to reality. "Agent Morgan?"

Morgan turned to find Dr. Kimura leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed and a warm, knowing smile on her face. "I'm sorry to bother you, but it's time for Dr. Reid to be poked and prodded a little. If you don't mind," she added, turning her gaze to Reid, who smiled back shyly, a faint blush tinting his cheekbones.

"Feel free to poke away, Doctor," he said, too tired even to panic. He briefly considered starting a ramble to try and hide how awkward he felt all of a sudden, and decided he just couldn't be bothered - also, it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.

Dr. Kimura, very professionally, repressed the grin which threatened to appear on her lips. "Would you mind waiting outside, agent Morgan? It will only take a few minutes," she said, polite, and Morgan nodded.

"Of course, Doc." He turned to give Reid a playful wink. "I'll be right outside, pretty boy. See that you behave."

Reid's eyes were lighted up by something Morgan couldn't quite identify, and his smile was tiny and luminous when he said - "Will do. Thank you, Morgan."

And all the dozens of witty, bright retorts that seemed to constantly crowd Derek Morgan's mind were quick to disappear, leaving him vaguely embarassed as he felt a goofy smile splay itself on his face against his every intention - and he chose to ignore Dr. Kimura's amused smile, because Derek Morgan did not get shy, ever. "Anytime, kid," he murmured, and left the room, trying to convince himself that it was a strategical retreat and he was, most definitely, not fleeing.

---

And then, later, outside.

"So, how is he, Doctor?"

"He's a a though one." Pause, as she puts her hands on her hips, sighing in frustration. "If only he'd allow me to administer him some morphine..."

"No!" A heavy pause. Morgan does not lower his gaze. "He's had... issues."

A knowing, crooked smile. "I understood that much."

Pause. Eyes stare into eyes, and then Morgan nods, as if some agreement has been reached.

"We did not have this conversation."

Pause. Slowly, she nods. "We did not." She'd like to lean her hand on the man's arm - and clutches her folder, instead. "He'll live," she says.

Morgan remains silent. And the look in his eyes, it's almost enough to make up for - all the ones she's seen in the past few days, when the news she had to deliver were very, horribly different.

Then, he asks - "Can I - remain with him?"

She cannot hold back a smile. "You shouldn't... but you can. Just - don't tire him out. He needs to rest."

"Thank you, doctor."

She nods, and walks away, trying to stop smiling, because she's supposed to be serious.

Sometimes, she thinks, she loves her job.

---

The next time Reid woke up, his eyes did not hurt quite as much. The light had been dimmed, and the hospital seemed, somewhat - quieter, dipped in the fuzzy atmosphere of an easy night shift. The monitor at his side was beeping softly, and Reid vaguely wondered how long it would be until it started driving him positively crazy.

"Hey. You're awake," a familiar voice said, gruff with sleep.

Reid frowned as he turned his head to see Morgan, sprawled on the chair, who was rubbing at his neck with one hand, looking every bit as worn out as he sounded.

He vaguely thought he should say something to Derek, but his mind felt filled with a thick, murky fog, and thinking was - how weird - just too difficult. "Hi", he settled on in the end, fighting to shake the dizziness off.

"Hi yourself," replied Morgan, his smile standing out against the half-darkness. Reid forced himself to keep his eyes open as he counted to 2584 in the Fibonacci sequence, trying to let his sight adjust to the shade. (And, for him, it wasn't even curious that it wasn't any different than simply counting to 18; but then, that was Spencer Reid, and that's just how things were with him.)

Morgan's shape gained definite contours and details, and Reid's brain cleared off enough to allow him to notice the dark shadows under the man's eyes, the scruffy stubble dusting his chin and cheeks. Reid cleared his throat a couple of times, trying to gather some moisture in his mouth. "What time is it?" he croaked.

Morgan shrugged, eyeing the clock hanging on the wall above Reid's head. He refrained from grimacing at the glowing digits. "It's late. Or early, if you prefer," he said, his voice still hoarse.

Reid cleared his throat again, and when he spoke, his voice was a little firmer. "You should go home."

"I'm good where I am," replied Morgan. They stared at each other in silence for a while, weighing each other with careful glances - the soft buzz of machinery in the background, the dim beeping of monitors.

"Thank you," Reid blurted out of a sudden. "I really appreciate - you know," he made a vague gesture with one hand, which - he found out - felt heavy as lead. "Everything. Thank you. But really, you should - go. Look tired," he mumbled.

Morgan smiled. "You look worse." He stretched, bending his neck, relieving the stiffened muscles in his back. "Don't worry about me. I'm fine," he said - and whatever convincing effect he'd hoped to achieve was ruined by the huge yawn he wasn't quite able to stifle.

The corners of Reid's lips twitched. "I see," he said. "But I insist - you can go. Promise I'll still be here when you come back," he tried, with a weak smile, and Morgan couldn't help but grin at the valiant attempt.

"Thanks for the offer, kid," he said. "But I think I'll stay right here. You know, just to make sure," he added, trying to sound casual - but he could tell Reid was not fooled. (Damn, not even anthrax infection could impair the kid's insight). As Reid's smile faded, Morgan focused his gaze on the green digits of the clock, the steady progress of the seconds, trying to ignore the way Reid's eyes were fixed on his face, determined not to look away.

"Morgan," said Reid. Morgan tried to convince himself he hadn't heard. It didn't work.

"Morgan," Reid repeated, his voice soft - and Morgan had no choice but look at him. Their eyes met in silence, and - the question hovered between the two of them, with no need for it to be voiced. Morgan could read it clearly in the way Reid's brow was furrowed, just lightly, the way his lips seemed just about to pout, like every time he struggled to understand the reason behind some unusual behaviour - why, Morgan?

And he could clearly read the warning, too, lying hidden in the firmness in Reid's eyes despite the weakness and the haze of chemicals: don't make me profile you. Morgan gave a deep sigh.

"I keep thinking that I left you alone when I shouldn't have."

Reid's expression softened in a tight smile - which looked, though, somewhat stung. "You don't need to stay here out of guilt," he said, gentle.

"It's not that," replied Morgan. "It's just - after Hankel, I'd - I'd sworn no one would fail you again. We'd always have your back." He paused, staring at his hands, hanging limp between his knees. "I'd always have your back," he added, barely more than a whisper.

Reid looked at him. "So, basically, guilt," he commented, dry.

"Yeah. No. I mean - I," Morgan shook his head. "I was so angry at JJ for - because she wasn't there. With you. Where she - was supposed to be," he said, and his smile was so bitter his teeth seemed to grind. "And I have turned out to be no better."

Reid kept staring at him, blinking slowly. His eyes felt puffy, and they burned when he tried to focus. "It wasn't your fault," he said, his voice a little unsteady.

Morgan dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "I should have been there."

"Yeah, and what good - would that have done?" Reid said, as he struggled to prop himself up against the pillows. "You'd just gotten yourself - infected as well, and -" he paused, gulping down air, and Morgan was quick to get by his side - his hands gentle but firm as he pressed on Reid's shoulders, guiding him to lie back down.

He let one hand linger there, a moment longer than needed. When he pulled back, Reid thought his shoulder felt, suddenly, cold. "I'm sorry, kid," Morgan said, a stricken look on his face as he sough out Reid's eyes.

Reid stared straight back. "I said it was not your fault."

Morgan's hand tightened on the bed's handrail. Hard. "I should have been right there with you! I -" he said, fighting to keep his voice low -

"Will you stop that!" Reid snapped, causing Morgan's mouth to clamp shut in surprise. "I've had enough of this - this attitude that you - that everyone keeps giving me, like I'm -"

"Reid - Reid, it's fine. Calm down," Morgan tried, taken aback, reaching towards Reid without quite knowing what to do - hands hovering useless, splayed in a gesture of peace. "I'm sorry. We can talk about this when you're better."

"I say we can talk about it right now," retorted Reid. He tried to lift his hands and found them trapped by the IV and the heart monitor cable and the chest catheter and whatever the hell they'd hooked him to - and barely refrained from ripping everything off, getting more and more annoyed. "I don't need anyone to babysit me. I'm a fully grown male and a qualified agent just like the rest of you," he raised his voice, his chest heaving. He blinked as he felt his eyes start to burn again, losing focus. "And I'm tired of everyone thinking - that I can't make my own decisions - can't be responsible for myself. And if you, you think - think I can't be trusted to do my job - ..." he was forced to pause, struggling for breath, refusing to look at Morgan's face.

Morgan's eyes darted to the monitors suspended beside the bed, the beeping of which was getting faster, losing its regular rhythm. "Reid," he called, suddenly alert, the conversation forgotten.

Reid's hand went to his chest, clutching the thin fabric of the hospital gown. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate, to make his breath slow down, to make the air go in, damnit -

"Can't - breathe," he managed to get out, between gasps - and then the air was making a strangled, awful sound in his throat as his eyes snapped open and he tensed, his head thrown back against the pillow - and Morgan was on his feet, slamming his palm on the red alert button, and striding to the door, shouting - "Medic! He's - hang on, Reid, - Medic!"

---

Morgan raised his eyes as Dr. Kimura stepped out of Reid's room, readjusting her stethoscope around her neck, and looking decidedly more irritated than worried.

"Is he - will he be alright?" He asked, urgent, trying to keep his voice even.

The woman just looked at him with hard eyes. "Come with me, please," she said, her tone clipped, and turned her back to Morgan, walking until she was out of earshot from Reid's room. Morgan gave one last glance at Reid, who was now breathing regularly, his eyes closed - a whole new set of tubes arranged around him - then followed her, crossing his arms tight on his chest.

Dr. Kimura sighed, peeling off her latex gloves. "First, I'll have you know he's fine. Similar relapses can happen. The lungs are still weakened by the infection, and it will be some time before their functionality is fully restored." She paused as Morgan closed his eyes for an instant, relief surging in his chest. "We had to put him back on oxygen, and it will be two to five hours before we try and let him breathe on his own again."

She raised her chin and glared at Morgan, cold - and he felt himself shrink under her gaze. His shoulders hunched forward, just barely, and he tried fruitlessly to get rid of the tension pulling at his neck, the gnawing feeling of being about to be given a good scolding.

When Kimura spoke, her voice was sharp. "Agent Morgan, I thought I'd made it clear that you could stay as long as you didn't agitate him."

Morgan bowed his head, nodding slowly. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean -"

"I'm sure you didn't," she interrupted, managing to look intimidating despite her small size. "However, agent, I'm afraid you will not be allowed into that room again anytime soon. You'll understand I cannot endanger the patient's recovery."

Morgan swallowed. "I understand," he murmured, feeling his face warm up with shame under the doctor's reproachful gaze. He stuck his hands in his pockets, wishing he'd find something to fidget with - and turned to steal a glance towards Reid's room, where he could see him laying asleep behind the plexiglas. Morgan felt his chest tighten.

"Can I," he said, and had to stop with a choke when his voice failed him. He cleared his throat. "Can I stay out here?" he said.

"I'd recommend you go home, and try to get some rest," she replied, crossing her arms in an authoritative stance. Morgan swallowed again, his mouth suddenly dry.

"I won't bother anyone. I just -" he said, his eyes darting again towards the plexiglas panel. "I just can't - leave him. Not yet. Please, Doc," he added, trying for a playful smile, and failing.

Kimura looked at him for one long moment. Then, her eyes softened a little. "Alright. I'll have someone get you a chair." She could see the tension drain from Morgan's posture, as he took one deep relieved breath. "Just don't try to charm any more of my nurses into sneaking you sweets stolen from the common room. I've seen the JellO," she smirked.

"Promise I won't," Morgan replied, offering her a warm smile. And then - "Thank you," he added, somewhat gruffly. Kimura smiled back.

"No problem, agent Morgan." She glanced one more time towards Reid's room, and walked away without commenting further, shaking her head because - honestly - these men.

---

Again, later, outside - he sits, leaning his arms on his thighs, never losing sight of the sleeping form behind the glass.

And, if Morgan could make sense of all the thoughts heaving in his head - the thick turmoil that refuses to acquire an order, a well-defined shape (because sometimes, even a profiler can turn out to be not quite good enough to profile himself) -

They'd probably be something like this.

Alright. Then, maybe, I am wrong - on a conscious level, I know you are an agent - and a good one, kid - that your choices are your own. (I know.)

I'm sorry for not giving you the credit you deserve. You don't need anyone to hover by your side and oversee every step you take, each of your decisions. I know.

Except I want to . Because - because you are so young and look so vulnerable despite that giant brain of yours - (because you're Reid) - because I care.

And, for some reason, I hate the idea of knowing you're alone - I want to be here every time you wake up, and walk you out of here - and spoil you rotten for a while (for the rest of your life) because, hell, kid, you so deserve it.

(Need to remember to get him some JellO.)

So, right; I'm sorry for not treating you as the man you are. I understand, I get it, but, nonetheless - the fuck I'm leaving. So you'll just have to get over it.

And instead, as he sits, without words to help him explain - all that Morgan recognizes is a bastard mix of fear and frustrated relief. And a strained longing, that makes his head sort of spin - something which leaves a sweet, confusing aftertaste in his mouth - (and that is, maybe, a little similar to love.)

"You think I don't know that, kid?" he murmurs at some point - but Reid just murmurs in his sleep, and Morgan looks at him in silence, and stays on watch.

[ficlet]: promesso

2009-07-01T17:57:26Z

[mood| whatever]

Titolo: Promesso
Autore: lagolindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Prompt: '01:00 - Partenza' dalla mia table, nell'ambito della challenge 24ore.
Rating: PG
Sommario: "Ricordamelo di nuovo... perchè te ne vai a quest'ora?"
Note: Traduzione dell'originale in inglese "Be back". Le parole chiave della storia non rendevano affatto in Italiano, così ho dovuto spostare un po' il fuoco della scena.

Promesso.

"Ricordamelo di nuovo... perchè te ne vai a quest'ora?" bofonchia Reid, poggiato contro il cuscino, strofinandosi gli occhi ancora impastati.

Morgan siede sul bordo del letto, scrollando la testa per scacciare gli ultimi residui di sonno. Si passa stancamente le mani sul volto, e sospira. "Pechè Hotch ha chiamato. Abbiamo un caso."

"E perchè non posso venire con te?" chiede Reid, imbronciato, suonando appena un po' petulante. Morgan sorride e si volta a guardarlo, coprendogli il polso con una mano.

"Perchè sei stato infettato dall'antrace meno di due mesi fa, e non sei ancora autorizzato a tornare al lavoro," dice, paziente. Reid ha messo il muso ogni volta che è uscito un nuovo caso nelle ultime tre settimane - con gran divertimento di Morgan.

Reid sbatte le palpebre, tentando di soffocare uno sbadiglio. "N'n è giusto. Ti prendi tutto il divertimento," dice, con aria offesa. Morgan non riesce a trattenere uno sbuffo divertito.

"Beh, ragazzino, in compenso tu puoi dormirtela. Goditela, finchè dura," dice, dando alla mano di Reid una pacca d'incoraggiamento. Si stiracchia, quindi, e si appresta ad alzarsi. "Ora di andare."

La mano di Reid, gentile attorno al suo polso, lo trattiene - solo un momento. "Morgan. Cerca solo..." dice, il suo sguardo che si è fatto serio - Morgan sorride, in silenzio, lasciando che le proprie dita si intreccino a quelle di Reid. Gli stringe la mano, e si china a baciarlo, piano.

"Lo so, bel ragazzino," mormora, senza far nulla per dissimulare l'affetto che impregna la sua voce, allungandosi a scostare i capelli dalla fronte di Reid con tocchi gentili. "Torno presto."

Porta la mano di Reid alle proprie labbra e preme un bacio sulle sue nocche, uno sulle sue dita affusolate. "Ti amo," dice.

E Reid risponde - "Ti amo," sorridendo un sorriso assonnato, e sfiora la guancia di Morgan - Morgan copre la sua mano con la propria e chiude gli occhi, un istante, respirando il profumo di Reid, della sua pelle, impregnandone i sensi, perchè lo accompagni per tutto il tempo che trascorreranno divisi.

"Ritorno. Promesso," dice. E Reid lo guarda negli occhi, annuendo - e gli crede.

.

[ficlet]: those dreams

2009-06-24T12:46:33Z

[mood| quiet]

Title: Those dreams.
Autore: lagolindari
Beta: the uber-lovely emmakinney ♥.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG
Summary: Morgan's afraid.
Note: references to episode 2x15, Revelations.

It is Reid's hand, soft on his arm, to gently call him back from sleep – that, and Reid's voice, small and quiet in the vastness of the night.

And Morgan surfaces from the dream in a soft, impalpable instant, between a heartbeat and the next – a breath just a little too sharp to betray his coming back to consciousness.

He blinks away the darkness, the fuzzy confusion, as Reid keeps stroking his arm with gentle, nimble fingers.

"Derek. Are you alright?" he murmurs, careful as always – his eyes kind and concerned as they search Morgan's face –

And the dream reaches with one of its smoky tentacles into Morgan's awareness, and allows him to remember just enough – a lone, cold shard amidst the fog of lost, sleepy memories. Morgan swallows.

"I saw you die," he says, seeking out Reid's eyes, and reaches to touch his arm, then his face, with an unsteady hand. And he'd never be that helpless, that scared, if it wasn't a dream – which creeps up unexpected at night and strikes him in places he cannot defend. Because sometimes – he sees a grainy computer screen again, and there's Reid, tied to a chair, a silly, stripy sock on one foot – Reid, who's stopped breathing, and Morgan can't look away.

"I saw you die," he repeats, a little incredulous still, his voice thick – and Reid shivers and leans down to kiss his forehead, his eyelids, his lips, and settles against his body.

"I'm here," he replies, barely more than a whisper, and Morgan sighs and drags him close, in his arms, and holds tight. He buries his face in Reid's hair and scrunches his eyelids shut, and wishes not to fall back asleep – to surround himself with Spencer's warmth and touch him and feel him all night, breathing, alive, and just not sleep anymore.

Because, in his dreams, Reid doesn't always wake up - and Morgan's afraid. Of those bastard, traitorous dreams.

Post Scriptum: check out my batch of Morgan/Reid icons here!
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[icons]: criminal minds

2009-06-22T09:52:02Z

[mood| duh]

free to take

credit would be lovely. copy/paste "by <lj user="lagolindari">"

commenting would be twice so.

66 icons - Criminal Minds; Derek Morgan, Spencer Reid, Morgan/Reid

screencaps by aoibhe, gabbiano_reale, Oracle of Quantico

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previous icons posts: HERE

my Criminal Minds fanfiction: HERE

[ficlet]: be back

2009-06-16T14:20:26Z

[mood| *meep*]

Title: Be back.
Autore: Lago Lindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Prompt: '01:00 a.m. - Leaving' for my table, from the 24ore challenge.
Rating: PG
Summary: Morgan has to leave. Reid sulks.
Note: references to episode 4,24, Amplification. Dedicated to finnishphinx because I promised him a fic that wasn't sad. Fluff.

Be back.

"So, remind me again... why are you leaving so late?" mumbled Reid, half-propped up on his pillow, as he rubbed at his eyes, sleepy.

Morgan sat on the side of the bed, shaking his head to clear the sleep off. He wiped at his face with tired hands, and sighed. "Because Hotch called. We have a case."

"And why can't I come with you?" asked Reid, sounding just a little petulant, and definitely pouting. Morgan smiled, and turned to look at him, resting his hand on Reid's wrist.

"Because you were infected with anthrax less than two months ago, and you aren't allowed back to work yet," he answered, patient. Reid had sulked every time a new case popped up in the last few weeks, and Morgan was still fairly amused by it.

Reid blinked, stifling a yawn. "'S unfair. You get all the fun," he mumbled, in mock offense. Morgan couldn't help but grin.

"Well, kid, you get to sleep in. Enjoy it while it lasts,” he said, patting Reid's hand. He stretched his back, holding back a groan, and made to get up. "Gotta go, now."

Reid's hand, soft around his wrist, held him back for a moment. "Morgan. Just..." he said, his eyes turning serious – Morgan smiled, silent, and let his fingers entwine with Reid's. He held his hand, and leaned down to kiss him, slow.

"I know, pretty boy," he murmured, affectionate, reaching to smooth Reid's hair away from his forehead with gentle, warm touches. "I'll be back."

He brought Reid's hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles, his graceful fingers. "Love you," he whispered.

"Love you, too," replied Reid, smiling a sleepy smile, and reached to touch Morgan's cheek – Morgan covered Reid's hand with his own, and closed his eyes for an instant, breathing in Reid's scent, taking it in for all the time they would remain apart.

"I will be back," he said. And Reid just looked into his eyes, nodded, and believed him.

.

[fic]: Love strawberry, too

2009-06-15T16:58:31Z

[mood| reading]

Title: Love strawberry, too
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: Not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Morgan hated strawberry-flavoured Jello.
Notes: final paragraphs refer to episode 4x24, Amplification.

Morgan hated strawberry-flavoured Jello.

It was too sweet, for starters, and it reminded him of childrens's cough syrup. Actually, it tasted more like cheap bubble gum than like strawberries, and Morgan really didn't like that.

Also, it was pink. Which, according to Morgan, was a perfectly legitimate reason for disliking it.

---

Strawberry was one of Spencer's top favourite flavours, instead. It was the one he preferred when he huddled up on the couch with a book, still shaky from a bad case, or simply after a bad day. It was his special favourite when he was scared, and when he wished to indulge himself a little.

It was the one he used to get when he was a child, and he had to go grocery shopping because his mom would not get out of bed – his mom would never have allowed him to have Jello, had she been in her right mind. Spencer would sit at the kitchen table, two cushions piled on top of the chair because he was not quite tall enough yet, and slowly eat his Jello – pondering between spoonfuls what he could try to say to mum to make her get up and if, maybe, she would recognize him tomorrow.

---

Reid in tears, exhausted and sick of everything – too tired to keep up the deceitful smile he'd been sporting all evening – was a sight which made Morgan's knees go weak. He'd sat with him, on the sofa in Reid's messy living room, and had held him, careful – and it had felt so right it had made Morgan's heart sort of ache. Reid had tried to smile, his eyes luminous and his lashes wet, and Morgan had just been able to stare, half enchanted and half stupid –

Their first kiss had been strawberry-Jello flavoured. Morgan had kissed the taste on Spencer's lips that night, and later time and time again – he'd come to associate it with Reid's comfort, and now it did something to ease Morgan's own silent wounds, too, when need be.

Not that Morgan would ever admit it – it was still pink, after all. So, when Reid opened the fridge and found some of his Jello stash missing, he would never mention it – but he would go and nestle against Morgan on the couch or in bed, and talk or listen or simply touch him, rubbing slow circles on his back and arms, caressing his face as they kissed and kissed.

---

“Why won't you buy the strawberry one? I know you like it,” had asked Spencer, resting his chin on one hand, a playful smile on his lips.

“It's pink,” Morgan had said, disdainful. Reid had smiled, shaking his head.

“That doesn't stop you from stealing mine,” he'd said, and he'd sniffed in mock offence.

“I never do that,” Morgan had replied, promptly reaching with his spoon towards Reid's cup. Reid had laughed and swatted at his hand, but had let him have some of his strawberry Jello anyway.

---

“No more 'buts'. I'll personally go get you some sandwiches and you damn well eat every single one of them. Are we clear?”

“Yes, mama. Promise I'll try,” Morgan said, and couldn't help a smile as Garcia glared at him with her arms crossed over her breast, looking every bit like his mother.

“That's how I like you, sweetpie. Is there anything else you want? How about some Jello?” she added, lighting up. She'd been trying to get Morgan to eat since she'd arrived at the hospital, but he'd conceded to having something only after that nice doctor had come to tell them that the cure was working, and that Reid would indeed be alright. “Which one do you prefer?”

Morgan's stomach still felt sore and stiff, after he'd been so upset the mere idea of food was almost enough to make him sick. And he hated strawberry – he did. It was pink and tasted like plastic and he really, really hated it, and he would maintain that in front of everyone. And yet – yet it tasted like Reid's lips, too – like soothing, unspoken words. “I'd like a strawberry one,” he said, soft and quiet as a whisper. “Please.”

Garcia just smiled at him, and lay her hand on his arm. “Strawberry it is. You sure deserve something sweet now, my dove.” She leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I'll go get food. You try and rest a little – you want to be bright and strong when our baby wakes up.”

---

“Hey, baby boy,” murmured Morgan, as he let his hand ghost over Reid's skin, reveling in his warmth, in the soft, regular pulse on the inside of his wrist. “Never. Ever. Do that again. Just – don't.”

A tired Reid looked up at him, affectionate, and did not promise what none of them could offer. “If I say sorry – then, can I have some Jello?” he asked, just a little out of breath.

“Deal,” replied Morgan, smiling.

Reid stared into Morgan's eyes and remained silent for one long moment. “I'm sorry,” he whispered then, and his voice echoed for an instant the haunted guilt those words had carried hours before, spoken from behind a glass pane which was as thick as regret, as the weight of lost chances. “I'm sorry, Derek.”

“It's alright, kid,” Morgan's fingers traced slow circles on Reid's hand – he leaned in to kiss Reid's lips and he closed his eyes, so Reid would not see them glisten as Morgan fought back the remains of his fear, and tried to tame the overwhelming warm, grateful feeling that made him want to cry.

He let his mouth graze Reid's, soft and warm, in chaste, small kisses which made his heart flutter. He blinked as he sat back, and grinned when he saw Reid's brow furrow as he tentatively licked his lips, tasting the flavour he'd stolen from Morgan's mouth.

“Strawberry”, said Reid, and smiled, his eyes half-closed. “I thought you hated it.”

“Sometimes I do,” replied Morgan, his voice catching in his throat. “And sometimes , you know – I love it. The strawberry. Like now. So much, I – I love – strawberry,” he babbled, feeling rather foolish, not even sure if Reid would understand – hell, not even sure if he understood himself.

“Yeah,” replied Reid, barely more than a whisper, offering Morgan a small, luminous smile. He was a genius, after all. “I love strawberry, too.”

.

[fic]: pretty boy

2009-06-11T20:01:02Z

[mood| headache]

Title: Pretty Boy
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: Not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Morgan and Reid interrogate a pedophile. Reid is clever. Morgan is upset.

“Reid, relax. I’m not gonna go in there and crush his skull on the table. Though God knows I’d like to,” Morgan muttered darkly, hands planted on his hips as he eyed the door of the questioning room.

"Are you – are you sure?” Reid was still fidgeting with his satchel’s strap, and Morgan though he would smack him if he didn’t stop. “We can – we could wait for Rossi and let him deal with it. He’s more experienced with – "

Morgan scowled, his brow furrowing. "Reid. We don’t have the time to hang around and wait for Rossi.” And Reid really did not have to baby him. That was – against the natural order of things. “Let’s just do it."

Reid just looked at the door, then back at Morgan, his eyes concerned. "I – listen, I can go alone. There's no need for you to – come in there," he said, as his long fingers kept worrying with the worn leather. Morgan wanted to growl.

"I said I'm fine," he snapped, crossing his arms on his chest – and realized a fraction of second too late just how much of a defensive posture that was. He fought the urge to roll his eyes, frustration biting his insides, as Reid stuck his hands in his pockets, shifting from one foot to the other. There was no time for all this crap. And he – and he did not have any goddamn problem. Most definitely not.

Reid wet his lips, nervous, and shot another quick look at the door. "Morgan..."

"Just – cut it, will you?” Morgan said, a little bit harsher than he’d intended. He stared at Reid, switching to his most persuasive tone. “There's no way I'm letting you in there alone with that bastard. So – let’s get it over with."

Reid just offered him a tiny smile, and nodded, suppressing an affectionate sigh. It's safe, he wanted to say, It’s not like I’m taking any risks; yet he could understand Morgan's need to feel he was protecting him – maybe it would help him face some of his old issues, and take them down. And, if he had to be honest with himself, it was reassuring – almost kind of sweet.

"Alright," he said. He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it up, and took off his tie, facing with a smirk Morgan’s raised eyebrow and questioning look. "Let me do the talking. I have – I think I know – " he pursed his lips, then stared at Morgan with steady, confident eyes. "Just – stay back, and try to look menacing."

All Morgan could do was roll his eyes. “Well, that sure ain’t gonna take much effort,” he said, making his knuckles crack. He straightened his back and set his shoulders square, adjusting his posture to convey strength and a hint of menace. He took one last look at Reid and, when he nodded, Morgan grabbed the handle, and pushed the door open.

---

Morgan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, a dark shadow in the background – head low, eyes hard. He stared, steady and attentive, as Reid went to sit in front of the Unsub, resting his hands on the table. The Unsub – Francis Bailey, a son of a bitch who’d kidnapped and abused no less than six kids over the previous two years, and why the fuck had the locals waited that long before calling the FBI in – spared Morgan a quick, indifferent glance, and turned his attention to the young doctor, scanning him with interest.

And, right before Morgan's eyes – Reid just morphed. Morgan had to blink, trying to keep his face straight, as he stared in astonishment – Reid’s shoulders slumped, so slow it was almost impossible to notice, curving forward enough to be perceptible just beyond the threshold of awareness. His eyes were low, fixed on the tabletop, hidden behind his tousled hair, and he was so insecure – he was chewing lightly on his bottom lip, uneasy, skittish – trying hard to hide how frightened he was, and failing…

Morgan had to brace himself against the fierce wave of protectiveness which surged in his chest. Every one of his basic instinct burst on fire, commanding him to step forward and fucking protect Reid, shelter him against the bastard’s lecherous gaze, drag him out of the room and comfort him, and – and damn, the kid was good. Morgan willed his trembling muscles to stay still, pressing himself against the wall so hard it felt his shoulder blades ache, and breathed deep.

Reid's demeanor was, apparently, having a very different effect on the suspect. Bailey straightened in his chair, suddenly at ease, his movements fluid – not even aware of what had caused that safe, familiar feeling. He relaxed his shoulders, holding his head high as he leaned slightly towards Reid, a predatory glitter in his eyes. He couldn't help but buy into his favorite fantasy, and found it pleasant to perceive himself in a position of power, control.

Bailey let out a small grin. "Look what a pretty boy we have here. What can I do for you?"

Morgan gritted his teeth so hard he tough his jaw would fucking snap.

Reid hesitated, uncertain – he couldn’t fight the urge to bring a hand to his hair, tucking a strand behind one ear, and shot the quickest look to Bailey from under his long lashes. He seemed torn between a respectful fear, and childish admiration – for the strong man he was facing. Morgan could see clearly the Unsub’s chest rise with pride, his expression turning to a satisfied smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Bailey. I’m – my name is Spencer,” Morgan tilted his head to the side, noticing the choice. He’d avoided his title and decided on his first name: he was deliberately trying to seem younger. Morgan felt a cold shiver run down his back. “I need to talk with you about a boy. His name is Jason Ford, and he’s been missing for five days – and I believe you might help us find him.”

The Unsub crossed his arms, leaning comfortingly in his chair. “You do?” he said, smiling.

“Yes. See, I believe you kidnapped this boy, just like you did with the children you kidnapped before.” Morgan wondered how Reid could sound so innocent and frail when he was being that blunt. “I believe you have taken this boy to one of your safe places, and you are keeping him there. Would you – tell me where that is? I could go and get him, and then maybe we would be able to help you.”

“Oh, my boy,” the Unsub actually chuckled, taking on a condescending stance. “Why would I need help? I have never known any of these kids you mention. I love children. They are my life – how can you think I’d hurt any of you kids?”

Morgan’s hands clenched, hard. The Unsub’s voice echoed old words, buried deep into Morgan’s memory – he felt his old anger stir, reacting to the same old tone, the same old lies. Morgan narrowed his eyes, and managed not to growl.

Reid lowered his eyes. “I see,” he said, in a small voice. “It’s just – I believe you do need help. I believe…” he blushed, fidgeting with the hem of one sleeve. Morgan titled his head slightly to the side, trying to understand Reid's plan.

The Unsub smirked. “Don’t be shy. A pretty boy like you – you can tell me anything you want.” He reached forward to pat his hand on Reid’s, the comforting gesture tinged with something sour and – just wrong. Morgan’s eyes flared as he prepared to step forward and splinter the bastard’s wrist if he didn’t take his filthy hands off Reid right now – but Bailey’s hand slipped back after a mere instant, and Reid did not react. Morgan forced himself to settle back against the wall, and wished looks could kill.

“I – well,” said Reid, daring to raise his eyes to the Unsub’s face, apparently reassured a little. “We are concerned for your health. The results we had from the coroner had us… worried. You see,” he leaned forward, one hand gesturing for Bailey to shift closer for a confidence, his eyes darting around as if to make sure no one would pry. “We believe you have relevant sexual dysfunctions," Reid said, spelling his words very clearly, his voice jovial and utterly incongruous. “That's why you had to use a tool to abuse your victims, such as a screwdriver, or a small crow bar.”

The Unsub stirred in his chair, making the chain of his manacle clink. His breath became harsher – the fast rising anger making it scratch like sandpaper. Reid kept talking, oblivious, his hands flailing around as he got caught in his trail of thoughts.

"The doctors would not pronounce themselves on the matter, but personally, I believe you either suffer from a severe underdevelopment of your sexual organs, or you are – highly impotent."

– and the Unsub was on his feet, his cuffed wrists slamming on the table, all but snarling in Reid's face. "I'd show you impotent," he hissed, as Morgan strode forward, growling a warning – "Sit back," his voice low and dangerous –

Reid didn't so much as blink.

"If I could show you – you'd love it, pretty boy," whispered Bailey, leaning forward, mere inches from Reid, leering at him with hungry eyes. "I'd enjoy showing you. I would enjoy you so much – "

"I said SIT BACK!" Morgan's hand slammed on the table as he stood between Reid and the Unsub, facing Bailey with his teeth bared, the anger now plain on his face – that guy had no idea what he was threading on. Then – he felt Reid's hand, soft against his skin as he leaned his fingers on Morgan's arm, quiet and secret as a whisper, holding him back.

The Unsub glared at Morgan with an arrogant sneer, still high on the defiance he'd milked from Reid's submissive attitude. He leaned back into his chair, an angered grimace distorting his face. "They weren’t taken with no screwdriver or shit," he said, looking at Reid. "That was man, all pure man, and you fucking know it."

Reid stared at him straight back, his hands neatly folded on the table. "Yes. In fact, I know," he said, terse. "But how do you?"

---

As the Unsub just stared at them, gaping – his rounded eyes transfixed on Reid, who was now very much an adult, sitting straight backed and sharp, near damn frightening in his coldness – Morgan suppressed a smirk, feeling a rush of pride for the kid’s display of skill.

"You, son of a bitch," the Unsub whispered, his eyes narrowing, fear taking swiftly over anger as he realized how he’d let himself be fooled.

Morgan was quick to sober up, and leaned towards the man, bracing both hands on the table. "You better be more careful what comes out of your mouth, Mr. Bailey," he said, his jaw set, hard. "Now, think you'll feel more collaborative about the place where you're hiding the boy?"

His eyes hardened as the Unsub's gaze shifted towards the table, apparently very interested in the lines and cracks marking the wood. "You better make up your mind, Mr. Bailey," Morgan's voice was low, dark and plump with well bred anger. "Or we'll have you thrown in Cook County’s, and everyone there will know in detail what you have done to those kids." He sought out the Unsub's gaze and held it, steady. "Every single one will know. I'll have the guards announce it with a fucking megaphone right before they take you in."

“I have a feeling Mr. Bailey might be in a more cooperative mood, now,” said Reid, his voice unusually cold. “Am I mistaken, Mr. Bailey?”

The Unsub fixed his gaze on the floor, and mumbled. Reid eyed him for a moment, evaluating his posture and expression, then smirked. “I’ll let you think about it for a minute. Then I’ll come back and ask you a few questions – which I have no doubt you will promptly answer, Mr. Bailey.” He got to his feet, his movements confident and dry, and walked to the door, waiting for Morgan to join him.

"You can wait outside if you like, Morgan. I have a feeling this is going to be quick,” he whispered, turning his back to the Unsub, and offering Morgan a secret, bright smile. Morgan couldn’t help but feel a little grateful – somewhere, part of him still feared that their job, what they had to face, would sooner or later take away Reid’s shine. What he’d seen of Reid in that room, moments before – that potential – had made his blood run cold.

"Not a chance," replied Morgan, stern, glancing at the slouching Unsub. "I'm staying right here. Now go, and finish that bastard."

---

And later – long hours later, after the Unsub had cracked, the kid had been rescued, lots of talking had been done and bureaucracy had run its course – Morgan stepped through the empty office, and found a lonely Reid leaning against the counter in the break room, holding a half-empty mug. Reid gave him a small, weary smile, and took a sip.

Morgan leaned against the doorframe and took a deep breath, rubbing at his head with a tired hand. "I guess I'll have to find you another nickname for you, now," he said, forcing a tight smile out in response.

Reid blinked, staring at him inquisitively for an instant – then, he understood. “Oh,” he said, his voice small. He fixed his eyes on his mug, brow furrowing, and pursed his lips tight.

“I just – don’t want you to think…” said Morgan, feeling the muscles in his neck ache with the tension of the day. He crossed his arms, and sighed. “I don’t know if I can. Not anymore,” he added, barely more than a whisper.

Reid just nodded, trying not to look crestfallen, and pretty much failing.

“Well, I expected you to be relieved – at least until I think of something new,” added Morgan, trying to sound lighthearted, and it came out so fake it almost made him cringe. He wanted to kick himself – it was just a joke, wasn't it? He shouldn’t be that worked up over a – a stupid nickname. He really shouldn’t.

Reid tilted his head to the side, lifting his gaze to meet Morgan’s. "Actually, I – I think I'm going to miss it," he said, his lips stretching in a tiny grin. “I know that it's not – you're not like that.”

He concentrated on his coffee, thoughtful, for a moment. "I don't mind being your pretty boy," he added, soft, and blushed just lightly – and Morgan thought he'd drown in the sudden relief that washed through him.

“Well – I guess I could deal with that,” he said, and if his voice came out a little warmer than he’d intended – he really did not mind. He let his eyes meet Reid's, and couldn't quite contain a huge, affectionate smile. “My pretty boy, then. And no one else’s.”

.

[fic]: never let you go

2009-06-08T15:13:17Z

[mood| discomforted]

Title: Never let you go
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: Not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: "Shut up!" at criminal_prompt
Summary: “Did you – did you know that it can be quite difficult to recognize schizophrenia during its early prodromal stage?”

Reid couldn’t help but moan, muscles trembling as he arched under Morgan’s touch – dark hands splayed against pale skin, and Morgan’s mouth, leaving a trail of bites, kisses, along his neck. “Morgan – I…” he said, his voice cracking, and - Morgan just held him by the hips and thrust harder, his teeth rasping against Reid’s skin as he breathed – “Don’t – don’t. Just – let me,” as Reid clutched at his shoulders and moaned loud, his legs tightening around Morgan’s waist, and tried not to speak, just – to let go, just let it go…

-

“Did you – did you know that it can be quite difficult to recognize schizophrenia during its early prodromal stage?”

Morgan’s hands paused as he clutched the towel, and he straightened to look at Reid – who sat quietly at the kitchen table, frowning at his coffee, his long hair catching the hints of fading sunlight pouring from the window. Morgan waited for one long moment – “Right,” he said, in a vaguely inquiring voice. He turned to get the pot from the coffee maker, and took his time pouring himself a cup and stirring it, before he prodded again. “And…?”

Reid sighed, leaning against the chair to stretch his back. “It’s just – you know. It’s just my mom,” he said, then brought his hands back to rub at his neck, trying to loose the tensed muscles. “My mom,” he repeated, thoughtful. “It was so – weird, the way it started. At first she just seemed a bit, uh – odd. Sometimes she would talk about them all day long, or refuse to get out of bed altogether, and sometimes she would be just fine.” He toyed idly with his cup, turning it one way and then the other, his long fingers grazing its handle. “That’s what makes it so difficult to spot – it could be confused with depression, stress. It’s hard to pinpoint specific schizophrenia symptoms. I guess – I can’t help thinking that if I had noticed before, if I had sought out medical help before, maybe – maybe she would be better now.”

Morgan just shook his head, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, mug of steaming coffee in hand. “Reid, you can’t blame yourself, and you know it. You were twelve. Hell, even you had probably never even heard about schizophrenia at that age.”

Reid raised his eyes to meet Morgan’s, a small, somewhat crooked smile unfolding on his lips. “I guess – I guess I know that. It’s just – sort of hard not to blame oneself, sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Morgan took one long, slow sip, and hummed low. “Especially for you, isn’t it, kid.”

Reid just smirked, his lips quivering, looking a little bit sheepish. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said, and Morgan couldn’t help but snort a laugh, shaking his head again. “Oh, Reid. Just kidding. I like that soft heart of yours.” He leaned forward to stroke Reid’s head, messing his hair up. “Just try not to bash yourself too hard. I told you once before – you can’t save everyone.”

“Yeah. I know,” Reid said, making a half-hearted attempt to smooth his hair down, without much hope of succeeding. “Anyway, I – at first, she would randomly forget to have lunch, or to pick me up from school. Schizophrenia impairs the ability to cope with the normal everyday routine. Or she would not wash her hair for weeks, then scrub maniacally down the whole house with bleach because they had been there, looking for – the documents. She also developed speech difficulties – disorganized speech, alogia. And she had trouble concentrating – she would sit at her desk for hours and conclude nothing...”

“Reid – ” Morgan fought to keep his eyes on Reid’s face, though his hand clenched on the mug’s handle so hard it almost hurt. He forced himself to take a deep breath and relax his shoulders before he spoke. “You know I’m here for you whenever you need to let some pressure out. But I – ” he rubbed at his head, biting back a sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”

Reid’s hands tightened around his own mug as his eyes scanned the tabletop, as if trying to detect an answer from the intricate patterns of the wood. “Males reach a peak of vulnerability for developing schizophrenia between the ages of 18 and 27 years,” he said, barely more than a whisper. He raised one hand, quick, to prevent Morgan from interrupting him. “1.2% of the American population is affected by schizophrenia, and the average chance of developing it is 1 in 100. However, over 37% of those who develop schizophrenia do have family history of it, and if one of the parents carries the disease, the – the offsprings have a 10% chance of developing the symptoms.”

“Listen, Reid, I – that doesn’t mean shit,” Morgan forced himself not to slam the mug on the counter, and stepped towards Reid, feeling his muscles throb with unpleasant anticipation. “I know you’re worried – but if you’re thinking that will scare me off –”

“I want you to know,” Reid said, sharp. When he raised his gaze to meet Morgan’s, his voice was steady. “That’s why I’m explaining you. I want you to be able to tell. If I go crazy – ”

“That’s not gonna happen to you,” Morgan snapped, harsher than he’d intended. And he could not quite look at Reid, somehow afraid of what he would see upon his face, the firmness in his eyes – how could he seem that certain, damnit – because it was simply not an option.

“Well, I do hope so too, obviously,” Reid said, his voice definitely too cheerful considering the topic of the conversation. Morgan almost wanted to punch him. “But I have to take into account all possibilities. With our job – there’s so many factors which are recognised as possible triggers for the psychosis. Traumatic experiences, heavy stress, PTSD, prolonged assumption of prescription drugs, or – active substances” he added, almost under his breath. “Illness, respiratory infections – even influenza could trigger off schizophrenia. Can you believe it? Respiratory infections,” he repeated, and raked his hands through his hair, taking a deep breath. “I was terrified for weeks after the whole anthrax deal. I kept waiting for – I don’t know, how on Earth are you supposed to understand if you’re going mad? Would I even notice?”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Morgan growled, turning to look at the window, vaguely knowing he had no right to feel angry – but Reid did not let himself be interrupted.

“Considering genetics and circumstances, it is highly possible that I could develop schizophrenia within the next five years.” He paused, swallowing – and when he spoke again, his voice was tight. “And I will not allow myself, or you, or – or anyone else for that matter, to suffer what I went through with my mom. I have an agreement with Dr. Bennington at the sanitarium – ”

“Okay. That’s it,” said Morgan, raising his hands. “I’m not listening to this crap one minute longer. If you think I’d ever, ever have you locked up like some lunatic freak, you’re way off tracks, kid.”

“Morgan… Derek – you’re not the only one who’s scared,” replied Reid, trying to keep his voice even, soothing, and – the fact that he could be so reasonable, so goddamn rational about it all was driving Morgan up the fucking wall. Because he was right – hell, Morgan was terrified, and he hated it. Anger, that he could deal with – but being that scared, that helpless, was something Morgan had long ago sworn he’d never have to be again. He closed his eyes, and bit back a snarl.

“You have to know that you – that you are free to walk away,” said Reid, in a small voice that made Morgan’s whole body recoil. “I would not be alone – there would be people taking care of me. And you could – you could just…”

“Goddamnit, Reid, shut up!” Morgan’s hands slammed on the table, making the cold coffee spill from Reid’s untouched mug – he tried not to let his heart crumble at the way Reid winced, drawing back from him. “I don’t wanna hear any of this. How can you even think I could – that I’d be able to just leave you and – how the fuck do you think I’d survive?”

Reid looked at him from under his mussed locks, his lashes blinking rapidly, a stricken look on his face. “Morgan – I don’t – I just don’t want you to…”

“I don’t care. Reid – Reid, look at me,” Morgan leaned forward, arms braced on the table, and sought out Reid’s gaze. “That’s not gonna happen. I’m not letting that happen to you. Got it, kid? Not a chance in hell,” he said, trying to restrain a growl, his warm eyes steady on Reid’s face.

Reid offered him a smile, and on instinct brought his hand to smooth back his hair. He held Morgan’s gaze as he said, soft – “Someone once told me – that I have to accept the fact that we can’t save everyone.”

Morgan let his head drop forward, shaking it slowly in denial. “Bullshit.” He lifted it again, his jaw set hard. “No. I’m not losing you, kid.” He brought one hand up to brush against Reid’s cheekbone, sliding to caress his hair, cupping his nape. “I’m never letting you go. I promise.”

Reid’s smile was weak. “I’m not going to hold you to that,” he whispered, grasping Morgan’s wrist, pinned by Morgan’s eyes – and Morgan just dragged him forward, his grip so tight it almost hurt – “Shut up,” he said, and he pressed his lips to Reid’s, hard.

Reid gasped in Morgan’s mouth as he was dragged up from his chair and pulled against Morgan’s strong chest, Morgan’s hands grabbing his arms, demanding – and he was sort of hurting him, but Reid just didn’t care. Morgan kissed him, angry and raw with need, and Reid moaned, clutching Morgan’s shirt, and let his tongue stroke Morgan’s, slow. He pulled back, breath heaving, to bite Morgan’s lips – Morgan growled in the back of his throat and Reid brought his hands to Morgan’s face, grasping his jaw, as Morgan kissed him like a man who’s about to drown –

-

– and later, after they’d stumbled to the couch, hands tearing at clothes, mouths unwilling to stop kissing, licking, biting – after Morgan had pressed his hand under Reid’s thigh, pushing it up, dark skin warm and just a little rough against pale one – Reid had moaned at the way Morgan fit between his legs, and had gasped and arched back when he’d pressed against him and then pushed inside, and they’d clutched at each other, a little too hard and a little too angry, not caring if it hurt –

Reid was drowning into Morgan’s eyes, bare inches from his face, so deep and – warm and hungry and desperate, before Morgan thrust against him, making him gasp, and leaned forward to mouth on his lips – “Reid – oh god, Reid, I – so much – ” and Reid squeezed his eyes shut and grasped Morgan’s head, biting his jaw, his lips, swallowing his words with kisses that tasted like wounds and smiles and borrowed time, and breathed “Shut up – Morgan, please – shut up.” He threw his head back when he felt Morgan tremble in his arms, his breath hard to catch, and just moaned Morgan’s name, over, and over again.

.

[fic]: it's alright

2009-06-01T21:06:01Z

[mood| accomplished]

Title: It's alright
Author: lagolindari
Beta: Not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Merlin RPS
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Everything good happens after it rains for bradleycolin's RPS challenge # 2

ETA: 1st place at bradleycolin's RPS challenge # 2! Thank you to all who voted ♥.

"Colin, you have to check the other side first! How many more times – hey, watch out!"

Bradley laughed as Colin tried to knock him down with his bike before riding happily on in the rain, grinning like a loon. "We're on the continent, they drive on the right!" Bradley shouted after him, before concentrating on the pedals, speeding to reach him, water rising in splashes around the tires.

"Got it, right!" Colin threw over his shoulder, his eyes a blue flash as he cast a quick glance at Bradley – who raced past him a handful of seconds later, wet hair wild in the wind, crying out – "Je m'appelle Colin, je suis loser!"

He pedaled on, Colin's laughter trilling in his ears, and could not quite squash down a huge, somewhat silly smile. He was drenched, his clothes a wet weight hanging off him, the bike kept skidding in the puddles and the rain was spraying in his eyes – and he was fucking loving it.

---

It had been Colin's idea. Which was kind of weird because, well, Bradley was supposed to be the sporty one – and he was, he just hadn't thought about it first. So he'd been kind of surprised when Colin had appeared knocking at his door as soon as the sun had warmed up a little, had dragged him out of bed and had all but bounced to a tiny corner shop which, apparently, offered location de vélos.

"And where exactly are you planning on going?" Had asked Bradley, trailing half-grumpily behind him, possibly just because he wanted to make Colin plead.

"Wherever! I mean - just look at that!" Colin had waved his hands, vaguely embracing the green hills that rose just outside the town, encircling it in a graceful arc. The morning sun was fresh still, and made the bright green grass seem almost radiant in the distance – and Bradley had to admit that yes, it was kind of inviting, after all. Then Colin had looked at him with those huge, hopeful eyes, his lips quivering with excited anticipation – and Bradley had had no choice. Really.

---

So, they'd spent the morning cycling up and down the gentle curves of the hills, a bit wobbly at first – Colin swaying left and right and almost toppling off a cliff and then protesting, trying to hide his blush – "It's been ages, alright?" – and Bradley, on his part, forgetting himself laughing at something Colin said while freewheeling downhill and barely avoiding crashing into a tree. As they gained confidence, they’d eventually grown bolder, challenging each other at impromptu races on the uneven track – which Bradley always won, obviously, even though Colin would not quite agree with that.

Then the sun has switched on full force, and it was hot and close to lunchtime, so they'd got off the bikes near some comfy-looking meadow. They’d tried without much success to brush off some of the mud encrusting their jeans, which had prompted Bradley to swipe two muddied fingers across Colin’s cheek – Colin had yelped and insulted him and tried to tackle him to the slushy ground, and had somehow ended up caught in the unbreakable special Bradley-headlock, Bradley threatening to smear mud all over his face if he did not beg for clemency. Colin had been laughing too hard to speak, and Bradley had eventually taken pity and released him, sprinting towards the lawn – Colin had followed close and they’d flopped down, panting still and hiccupping with laughter, sprawling on the grass and closing their eyes in the warm light.

---

"This is brilliant," Colin sighed happily, somewhere on Bradley's right. Bradley opened one eye, taking a peek at him – Colin had his hands behind his head and lay peaceful with his eyes closed, seeming to soak in the sunlight, taking on a glow all of his own. Bradley felt a warm, kind of foolish tug somewhere in his chest and, for once – he just ignored it and lay back more comfortably, stretching his back, and allowed himself to look at him a little more. Not that it meant anything. Obviously.

Then, without notice, Colin opened his eyes – Bradley stared back in shock for an awkward, long instant before turning quickly to look at the sky once again, eyes narrowing against the light, half-hoping the burn on his face was due to the heat of the sun only. It had been there before, hadn’t it?

A few moments of silence followed. "So, this wasn't a bad idea, was it?" Colin asked, eventually, his voice tinged with the barest hint of amusement – or, maybe, Bradley had imagined that.

"Mh." Bradley conceded, fighting the urge to look again, just to see Colin's expression. He scrunched up his eyelids against the blazing light, then mumbled, "'M hungry," trying to play it cool. Because he was. Cool. No doubt, ever.

There was a soft, snorting laugh, and Bradley felt Colin's movements stir the air as he sat up. There was some rustling – then something small and hard landed with a light thump on Bradley's chest. He peered down at it, eyebrows arching, then picked up the brightly wrapped cereal and raisins bar. "Uh. Thanks," he said, looking up at Colin, who was unwrapping his own snack. "Didn't think about bringing anythin'," he mumbled, wondering why the hell he was feeling that bloody tense, before proceeding to wolf down the bar.

"You're welcome," Colin said, smiling, and leaned back on his elbows, munching calmly.

---

Bradley felt like he’d be dozing off within minutes if he didn’t find a way to keep himself active. The grass was fragrant all around him, and the sun was seeping through his t-shirt, roasting his bare arms, his face, a little strip of skin on his belly where the shirt has scrunched up – hell, the make up people would kill Colin the next day of shooting. He cracked one eye open, taking in Colin’s relaxed stance, and listened for a while to his slow, even breathing, before speaking.

“Hey,” he said. It came out softer than what he’d intended – Bradley wondered if it might mean something, and decided he didn’t want to know.

Colin grunted something in reply, before he gave a deep sigh and stretched, arms raised, his back arching up from the grass. “Yeah,” he sort of croaked, blinking at the bright light with a sort of disappointed pout.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up,” Bradley said, having to fight down a surge of something warm and – yearning – which, just maybe, wasn’t entirely due to the sunlight. He uncrossed his arms from behind his head and spread them wide, enjoying the cool tickle of the grass. “Wouldn’t want make up to tell you off for getting a tan,” he added, feeling a little lame, and couldn’t help a burst of laugher when Colin yelped and jerked upright, fretting to pull his hood over his head.

He sighed, then dropped again on the grass, rolling on his side towards Bradley. “They’re gonna kill me, ” he groaned, rubbing at his face with his lean hands. “How bad is it?”

Bradley turned his head to take a look. Colin’s eyes were still a bit clouded with sleep, but they were blue and bright, glinting in the sun – Bradley wanted to kick himself as he let his gaze linger on his features, taking in the light flush on his cheeks, the beginning of a burn on his nose. “Not that bad,” he said, a little breathless for some reason, and also strangely unable to mock him to no end as he had intended to.

Colin just moaned and turned to hide in the grass, sprawling dramatically face down on the ground. His fingers brushed against Bradley’s wrist, pressing lightly against his skin, and – following a random, sudden impulse, Bradley covered Colin’s hand with his, and tightened his fingers, holding just barely. Colin’s eyes peered out from under his hood, wide in surprise, and a hint of bewilderment – Bradley stared back, hardly daring to breathe and wondering exactly how he’d managed to turn out such a bloody idiot, as panic began to rise in his throat. But Colin’s eyes narrowed, slow, their corners turning upwards in the confession of a smile – and Bradley’s chest thumped hard for a whole different set of reasons, now, as Colin’s fingers slowly entwined with his, warm and dry and soft – Bradley closed his eyes and smiled at the sky, trying to swallow the sudden lump in his throat, and just held Colin’s hand, trying to remember the last time he’d felt so damn stupid and happy.

---

Except, of course, a chilly breeze had started blowing shortly after, brushing through the grass, making the field murmur – and then the sun had been swallowed by a clump of nasty looking gray clouds, and the warmth and light had been gone. By the time they’d been back in the saddle, bumping hastily on the stones and cracks of the road, the first thin drops were already falling, streaking their foreheads, their hands – and when they’d cycled into town, they were soaking wet and cursing and laughing under a downpour of epic proportions.

---

“I thought this only happened in bloody England!” Bradley shouted over the steady noise of the showering rain. Colin just laughed, shouting back something about Irish weather before wheeling gracelessly through a crossroad which was thankfully deserted, Bradley snorting behind him as he slowed down to check the road before crossing as well.

“And look on the right, Morgan!” He called, and still Colin got it completely wrong again as he turned smoothly round a corner, heading towards the hotel. He caught a glimpse of his face – dark hair plastered to his forehead and a ridiculously happy grin making his eyes sparkle – before he disappeared behind the soaked brick wall, and Bradley couldn’t help but shake his head, smiling himself silly, simply because – because that’s what Colin did to him, sometimes.

---

The first thing Bradley heard was the screech. It pierced the air, the sound of tires biting on the tarmac somewhere behind that corner – then, he heard the crash.

Bradley’s heart just froze.

---

“Fuck, fuck, fuck – oh Jesus, fuck,” Bradley chanted, over and over, and had the feeling he’d never be able to breathe again as he sped towards the junction, his legs feeling heavy – and he could not move fast enough, he could never get there fast enough – he clamped down on the brakes as he skidded round the corner, one foot coming down to brace him as he swerved the bike around, too frightened to think, almost too terrified to look –

And there he was, holy fucking Christ, there was Colin who was getting shakily on his feet, disentangling himself from the bike, laying on the wet asphalt. Less than five feet at his side there was a van, halted at an awkward angle across the road, the flustered driver already halfway out the door. He was exclaiming something in French, his hands waving, and sounded more concerned than angry.

But none of that mattered to Bradley – he got off the bike without even bothering to stop, letting it crash on the ground, and within seconds was at Colin’s side, reaching out to steady him, hell, just to bloody touch him. “Colin – oh, fuck, are you – are you alright?” He could not quite stop his hands from shaking as he gripped Colin’s shoulder, offered him an arm to grab to hold his balance.

Colin stared at him, his eyes huge under the dripping locks of his stupid fringe, his face ashen with shock – then gave a tiny nod, pursing his lips tightly, his hand clenching on Bradley’s arm so hard it hurt. “Yeah,” he breathed, the sound almost drowned out by the drumming of the rain. He looked down at himself, almost surprised. “I’m fine,” he said, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

Bradley’s heart was thumping furiously, and he felt the crazy urge to just hug the idiot and never, ever let go again – but the driver had reached them, and was asking questions galore in French, his eyes dark and concerned. “Sorry – sorry,” said Bradley, trying to speak slow. “Pardon. He’s fine. All bien. Sorry – it’s fine,” and willed himself to calm down and try to remember the little French he knew to send the guy on his way. Thank goodness the man was not angry in the least, and only seemed to have had the shit scared out of him – feeling Bradley could greatly sympathize with right now – and after some more nodding and repeating ‘trés bien, tout va bien’ and even the pretence of a smile which Bradley managed to stir out, stiff and sore as it was, the guy climbed hesitantly back in his van and drove off, painfully slow.

Bradley took one deep breath, and turned back to look at Colin – who was standing in the rain, his arms wrapped around himself, looking thin and miserable.

“Let’s go.” Bradley said, setting his jaw hard to try and prevent his voice from shaking. Colin looked at him, pale and wide-eyed, and Bradley sighed. He bent to pick up Colin’s bike, and pushed it until he could pick up his own. “So, how about we walk to the hotel? I think I’ve had enough riding for today.” He tried a smile again, congratulating with himself on how good an actor he clearly was, even though Colin did not smile back.

Colin just nodded and pulled up his hood, and started walking in silence beside Bradley. And when he said, “Thanks,” in the smallest voice, Bradley was kind enough not to turn around to look.

---

“So. How are you feeling now?” Bradley asked, rummaging in a drawer for a tea spoon which he was certain he’d seen, uh, a few days before. Colin mumbled something in response, and slumped down into the sofa, dragging his knees up and sort of hiding behind them.

They’d made it to Bradley’s room managing to avoid everyone on the way, and they’d hastily scrubbed themselves dry – Bradley had gone to fish out some of his tightest jeans from his drawers and an extra jumper for Colin, and had changed quickly. He’d been on his way to make some tea when he’d noticed the way Colin was pointedly not looking at him – the way he stood holding the jumper and making no attempt to get his sweater off, as if waiting for something – and Bradley had understood.

He’d crossed his arms, turning resolutely towards Colin, and said – “Come on. Get on with it.”

Colin had looked at him, his hair all messed up by the all but thorough scrub, and swallowed. “Shouldn’t you – uh,” he’d said. “How about you make some tea?”

Bradley had arched an eyebrow. “Would you rather have someone else check you? Because I can go call someone right now,” he said. “But if you’re thinking I’ll let you just hide the bruises and be done with it – ”

“No – no, it’s fine,” Colin had said, interrupting him. He’d clutched the jumper in his hands, looking at the floor. “Don’t – I’d rather not tell anyone else,” he’d said. “The director would kill me.”

Bradley had just nodded. He’d been there before, and it was not pleasant – their health had a price tag, and an expensive one at that, now. “Alright,” he’d breathed. He had uncrossed his arms, and tried to loosen the muscles in his shoulders, which were pulled so tight it hurt. He hadn’t even noticed. “Come on,” he’d said, and had taken the jumper from Colin’s hands.

---

Bradley tried hard not to show how he recoiled at the carefulness of Colin’s movements, his tiny winces of pain as he raised his arms to slip his hoodie off. But he couldn’t quite repress a gasp at the sight of the harsh, reddened bruise which covered Colin’s side, his right shoulder, his arm, already darkening to an angry purple. “Fuck,” he muttered, and in an instant he was stepping forward – “Here, let me,” he said, grasping the hem of Colin’s shirt and helping him lift it off his head and shoulders.

He grabbed one of the towels and handed it to Colin, letting him pat himself dry before he turned him towards the light to take a better look. “Bloody hell,” he murmured, his hand tracing softly the shape of the bruise, trying to soothe the cold, abused skin.

“It’s alright,” Colin said, his voice low, his accent that had somehow got so thick Bradley could barely understand. “I threw myself to the side just in time. I, uh – I just hit the pavement kinda hard.” He took one deep breath, then let out a shaky laugh, leaning almost unconsciously into Bradley’s warmth. “’M sorry. Should have looked right first…”

Bradley did not find it funny at all, and his chest tightened painfully as he felt Colin tremble under his hands – without event thinking he wrapped his arms around Colin, slowly stroking his back, his neck – he brought a hand up to slip through his messed up hair, and hid his face against Colin’s neck, mouthing against his skin. “It’s alright,” he said, and pressed his lips to Colin’s bruised shoulder, and pretended not to notice how Colin’s breath hitched.

---

“What? I didn’t hear that,” he said, giving up the hope of ever finding the goddamn spoon, and turning on the tap to scrub a pair of mugs clean. He poured some hot water from the kettle and added two bags of that disgusting green tea that Colin had insisted on leaving in his cupboard because, apparently, it was “the best tea in the world” and he would come to realize it someday. That day had not come yet, but Bradley was willing to suffer through soapy awful tea if it would cheer Colin up a little.

He placed the mugs on the cluttered table in front of the sofa, careful not to spill anything, and stood to dry his hands with a rather dirty tea towel. He eyed Colin, huddled up in Bradley’s too big jumper and crouching in a corner of the couch – Colin who still would not answer him properly, and who was now concentrating intently on the rain-streaked window by his side.

“Hey,” Bradley said, concern creeping in his voice. “You alright?”

He stepped forward, moving to sit down beside Colin, who closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He was clutching his hands in his lap, Bradley noticed, trying to hide the way they were shaking, and failing. “Sorry,” he said, and Bradley’s heart gave one small, painful tug.

“Hey. Colin,” he said, rubbing Colin’s cold hands between his own, soothing. “It’s alright, baby. It’s alright,” he murmured, not fully aware of what he was saying, reclining his head to search for Colin’s eyes, one hand coming up to smooth his rumpled hair. And Colin finally let his eyes meet Bradley’s, and managed to offer him a small, though luminous smile, his eyes sparkling – a tiny shard of sunlight trapped under his damp fringe. “I’m not a baby,” he protested, letting his hands close around Bradley’s, his posture relaxing just a little.

“Yeah – whatever you say,” replied Bradley, a little bit enchanted by that smile, and vaguely thought that it must have been the lamest retort in the history of conversation, but – right now Colin was kind of robbing him of his ability of being witty and prattish, leaving him with something warm and fuzzy in exchange. Not that he minded too much.

Colin actually gave a small chuckle at his reply, and Bradley found himself smiling like a fool – he grabbed Colin’s head and pulled him forward, pressing his cheek against Colin’s forehead, ignoring Colin’s surprised gasp. “Never, ever do that to me again,” he whispered, his grip on Colin’s hands tightening, as he breathed the smell of Colin’s damp hair, of his skin, damnit.

Colin did not move for a long moment, then gave one slow nod, adjusting himself against Bradley’s body. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and Bradley just breathed deeply and turned to brush a kiss against Colin’s brow, then on his eyelids, the corners of his eyes. “It’s alright,” he breathed, feeling Colin smile against his neck, and held onto him tight. “It’s alright.”

.

[fic]: you can touch me

2009-05-09T19:43:56Z

[mood| overburdened]

Title: You can touch me.
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Prompt: '04:00 a.m. - Blood' translation of the fic written for my table, from the 24ore challenge.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: He walks to the bathroom, quiet, and knocks before he opens the door.

You can touch me.

Morgan always awakens, when Reid gets up at night.

Every time he does not move, pretending not to notice the cold seeping through the empty blankets beside him - not to hear Reid's soft padding, as he walks barefoot on the tiled floor. He remains laying on his side and does not open his eyes, remaining on the brink of sleep, suspended between the vagueness of dreams and that lucid, sharp attention that's been his companion for years.

He doesn't need to strain to hear the sound of water running in the bathroom, hushed by the closed door, for as long as it lasts - he does not need to keep track of the time, trusting his instincts will be quick to warn him if something is wrong.

And they do, sometimes, like tonight - the water has stopped, he wouldn't know how long ago, and still Reid hasn't come back. And Morgan finds himself awake and clear-headed in a soft, impalpable instant, when something snaps in his chest telling him - too long. He walks to the bathroom, quiet, and knocks before he opens the door.

Reid is sitting on the edge of the tub, his face harshly contrasted in the cold light of the mirror lamp. His hands lay abandoned in his lap, and he looks at them with an expression somewhere between pouting and a darker, profound something Morgan does not want to see.

"It won't go away," he says, raising his gaze to meet Morgan's. He lifts his pale, perfectly clean hands, just enough to show him. "It won't come off."

Morgan hesitates, leaning against the doorframe in his grey baggy shirt, a hint of stubble dusting his chin - then steps in front of Reid, and gets down on his knees.

"Alright," it's all he says, taking Reid's hands between his own with care. He wets his fingers with lukewarm water and starts stroking them softly, trying to soothe the reddened skin, the scrubbed-raw knuckles.

And, when he's done - when he feels Reid's posture relax, hears his breathing start to come somehow more easy - Morgan brings Reid's hands to his face, kissing their palms, their back, their lean fingers.

Reid's arms give an instinctive jerk as he tries to back off - but Morgan presses his hands to his own cheeks, and does not let him go. "You can touch me," he says, his voice low, calm. "There is no more blood, now."

It is only later, when Reid's breathing has become regular, slow - that Morgan hides his face against Reid's nape, spooned against his back, feeling his warm body safe within his arms. He sighs, closing his eyes. "Never stop touching me," he whispers.

And in the last, confused thoughts as he lets sleep reach for him again and slowly pool in is head, Morgan wonders - if Reid might know - that only this way Morgan is able to cleanse the blood from his own hands, too. Only this way.

.

[fic]: puoi toccarmi

2009-05-07T17:35:11Z

[mood| happy]

Titolo: Puoi toccarmi
Autore: Lago Lindari
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Prompt: '04:00 - Sangue' dalla mia table, nell'ambito della challenge 24ore.
Rating: PG
Sommario: Con cautela, Morgan raggiunge la stanza da bagno, e bussa prima di entrare.

Puoi toccarmi.

Morgan si sveglia sempre, quando Reid si alza.

Ogni volta, come ora, non dà cenno di essersi accorto del freddo che va ad impregnare le lenzuola vuote al suo fianco - nè di sentire i passi sommessi di Reid, a piedi nudi sul pavimento. Rimane sdraiato sul fianco e non apre gli occhi, trattenendosi ancora sul ciglio del sonno, sospeso fra il torbidume notturno e quella lucida, acuminata attenzione che è ormai sua compagna da anni.

Non gli serve tendere l'orecchio mentre ascolta lo scorrere dell'acqua nel bagno, attutito dalla porta accostata, per tutto il tempo che dura - non gli serve contare i minuti, confidando che il suo istinto sarà lesto a riscuoterlo se qualcosa non va.

Come ora, ad esempio - l'acqua ha cessato di scorrere, non saprebbe dire da quanto, e Reid ancora non torna. E Morgan si ritrova sveglio e ben lucido in un morbido, impercettibile istante, quando qualcosa gli scatta nel petto e gli dice - da troppo. Con cautela, raggiunge la stanza da bagno, e bussa prima di entrare.

Reid è seduto sul bordo della vasca, il suo viso un concerto di aspri contrasti nella fredda luce della lampadina sopra lo specchio. Si tiene le mani in grembo, guardandole con un'espressione a cavallo fra un broncio e qualcosa di più scuro e profondo, che Morgan non vuole vedere.

"Non riesco a farlo andar via," dice poi Reid, alzando lo sguardo a incontrare quello di Morgan. Solleva appena le mani, immacolate, mostrandogliele. "Non riesco a pulirlo."

Morgan esita, poggiato contro lo stipite della porta nella sua t-shirt grigia, un accenno di barba che gli impolvera il volto - quindi avanza di un passo, fermandosi di fronte a Reid, e si mette in ginocchio.

"Va bene," gli dice soltanto, prendendo con attenzione le mani di Reid fra le proprie. Si bagna le dita con acqua tiepida ed inizia a strofinare con calma, cercando di portare sollievo alla pelle arrossata, alle nocche che sono state sfregate tanto da spellare.

E, quando ha finito - quando percepisce la postura di Reid ammorbidirsi, sente il suo respiro che pare più libero, ora - Morgan si porta quelle mani al volto, baciandone i palmi, il dorso, le dita ripiegate.

Reid tenta di ritrarsi, le braccia che danno uno strappo, d'istinto - ma Morgan si preme le sue mani contro le guance, e non lo lascia andare. "Puoi toccarmi," gli dice, con voce bassa, pacata. Inclina la testa, cercando gli occhi di Reid, che lo guardano esitanti da sotto le ciglia. "Non c'è più sangue, ora."

E' solo più tardi, quando il respiro di Reid si è fatto lento e regolare - che Morgan gli nasconde il viso contro la nuca, aderendo alla sua schiena, sentendone il corpo caldo e sicuro fra le braccia. Sospira, mentre chiude gli occhi. "Non smettere mai di toccarmi," sussurra.

E negli ultimi, confusi pensieri, mentre lascia che il sonno torni a raggiungerlo, dilagando piano nella sua testa, si domanda - se Reid sappia - che soltanto così Morgan ha imparato lavare via il sangue anche dalle proprie mani. Solo così.

.

[fanart]: Merlin & Arthur by Vale!

2009-05-07T14:18:15Z

[mood| busybusybusy]

Here I come today bringing you some amazing Merlin + Arthur fanart! Rating: G.

Mind you - it was NOT made by me. It was made by my beloved ♥ Vale ♥, who I spent the five years of high school corrupting so that now she sees slash everywhere too! She's a brillian artist, and she's now studying at a well-deserved fine art academy. So, here's what happens when I pass along the Merlin fever to talented people... ;)

click here to see the HIGH-RES version of this picture - you have to see those eyes, OMG.

She does not have a lj, therefore feel free to leave your comments to her artwork in the post, as I will link her the page!

.

[fic]: sometimes, not enough

2009-05-05T18:48:32Z

[mood| messy]

Title: Sometimes, not enough
Author: Lago Lindari
Beta: Not yet beta-ed. Forgive eventual mistakes.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Pairing: Morgan/Reid
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "So. Reid," Morgan tucks his hands in his pockets. "I thought I'd come round to - you know. Have a chat, or somethin'."
Author's notes: right after episode 3x12, "3rd Life". Dedicated to emmakinney, who suggested it, and to teamane, just because ♥.

The rest of the day, for Morgan, is torture.

After the local cops sweep Vaughan away, there's a number of heavy, angry hours that stretch for too long - an endless load of formalities and empty talking to be done, bureaucracy claiming priority over people. Hotch is clipped and efficient, JJ terse and polite, and Reid - Reid is standing in silence at the edge of the crowd, arms bitterly wrapped around himself, wincing every time someone calls him to make him repeat the story once again. Morgan hovers around with his arms tightly crossed, his face dark, hiding behind his sunglasses the hateful looks he's not allowed to shoot.

When it's finally, finally over and they're free to go, he offers his exhausted colleagues a ride back to the hotel, his voice deliberately neutral. He does not try to start a conversation as they climb in the car and drives carefully, neat and impeccable - he respects every speed limit, makes textbook overtakes, his inner automatic pilot full-on. Yet his eyes, every now and then, slip away from the road - his gaze moves silently to the rear-view mirror, where he can see Reid, huddled in the backseat, his belt obediently on. Reid, who sits still, his shoulders stiff and his head tipped forward - who stares without blinking at the dark fabric of the seat in front of him, and does not smooth his hair back from his face.

Just once, when Morgan raises his eyes, he meets Prentiss's gaze in the mirror - they both look at Reid, and none says a word. Eventually, Emily leans her head against the window and closes her eyes, seeking some rest - and Morgan just drives on, Prentiss half-sleeping at his side and a haunted Reid wide awake behind him. He wishes he could think of some words, he could find something to say that would help - but he fixes his gaze on the road, instead, and remains quiet.

It's some time after they arrive that Morgan gets out of his room, skin still damp under his clothes from his short, steaming shower - and goes to tap softly on Reid's door. When he opens, the room is barely lit - the grayish dusk light is flooding through the window, with the warm yellow glow of the first street lamps switching on, the cold gleam of passing cars. Reid hasn't bothered with turning on the lights. He offers Morgan an uncertain welcoming smile, and hesitates just a moment too long before stepping aside to let him in. He hasn't changed yet, and Morgan can easily picture just what he's been doing - sitting down on a corner of the bed and staring at the changing sky outside, his mind wandering back to the afternoon, replaying the scene over and over, trying to imagine what he should have tried, what else he could have said, and how that would have made a difference, maybe...

"So. Reid," Morgan tucks his hands in his pockets, his muscles feeling sore and heavy, as he lets his eyes adjust to the shade. "I thought I'd come round to - you know. Have a chat, or somethin'."

Reid listens with his head slightly cocked to the side, and seems to be waiting for him to go on. "Right," he says, soft and vaguely inquiring, and Morgan knows that he understands quite well what's going on - hell, Reid was probably expecting someone to show up. Morgan wonders if he could have been any more obvious if he'd actually tried. "I - don't really feel like talking, right now." Reid murmurs, and Morgan tries his best not to sigh.

"I thought that maybe - we both could use a little company," he says, wishing he'd stop feeling so awkward - because damn, he's supposed to know what to to say. He should know. "We could just - hang out for a bit. If you don't mind, that is. "

"Yeah. No. I mean," Reid wets his lips, nervous, his gaze flickering uncertain, avoiding Morgan's face. But his voice - his voice is just wrong. It's too gray and heavy, exhaustion smudging its edges, and - Morgan can't help but feel like it's coming from some ugly, faraway place - where there's men with their head busted open, there's blood spattered on walls. There's pleads, uttered in a dead man's voice, and there's reason, which was just not enough.

Reid's hands quiver nervously. "It's been a long day. You, ah - you must be tired. I'll just - I..."

"Reid." Morgan's voice is low, his eyes steady. "How about I - we sit down, and we can... I only want - " He pauses, and rubs at his head with one hand, biting back a frustrated snarl. He can feel Reid withdrawing further into himself, and he just does not know how to reach through that distance and bring him back, damn it. He wishes he could touch him, and that would be inappropriate and wrong, and Morgan kind of knows that, too. "Just - just talk to me, kid."

Reid looks sideways, then down at the floor, and does not answer. He almost takes one step back, then crosses his arms, half defensive, half aching - his hair has fallen in front of his face and he does not tuck it back, just wishing that Morgan would leave, yet sort of wanting him not to. His lips move and part just the slightest, he swallows - then he purses them tight and again does not manage to speak, slowly shaking his head in denial.

"Hey. Reid - look at me," says Morgan. Measured, hesitant - Reid raises his chin, and his eyes look shattered when they come to meet Morgan's, in so many confused, painful shards - Morgan feels like he's been punched in the guts and God, he feels so damn useless right now.The hell with inappropriate, he thinks, wild and immediate, his chest tightening, sore -

"Just - come here," he says, his voice thick, and opens his arms - Reid just holds back for a few stretched seconds, looking at him so intensely it hurts, before he gives up. He steps forward, and his arms timidly wrap around Morgan's chest - Morgan circles Reid's shoulders with care and holds him close, one hand caressing its way up to the nape of his neck, stroking the tense muscles there, the other warm on Reid's back.

Reid takes a few, unstable breaths, holding back a heavy lump in his throat. "I thought I could do it," he whispers, his chin resting on Morgan's strong shoulder. He flexes his hands, grasping Morgan's t-shirt, and he frowns, looking for words which won't come. "I thought I could stop him," he finally breathes, hoarse.

Morgan closes his eyes, tightening his grip on Reid's lean body, his fingers weaving gently through the hair on his nape, caressing it, soothing. "I know," he says, and he's not quite sure he does exactly, but - it's close enough. They all have failed, at one time or another - they all have had to learn what it means. "You did good, Reid. Sometimes - sometimes, it just doesn't work."

Reid takes a deep breath and can't help but shudder, as it flashes again - he scrunches his eyelids shut and hides in Morgan's arms, trying to brace himself against the rush of images, memories so detailed they make his eyes burn. There's a man begging for his life, and then there's a dead man, his brain and his blood smeared on a white ceramic toilet. He had a face and was looking at him with imploring eyes, and - God, he'd never seen a man's head explode, never heard the sound of a brain splattering on the wall...

"I thought I could save them," he whimpers, and clutches Morgan hard, and wishes he could just cry, he could trust just enough to let go. Except that he doesn't - he forces his heart to slow down its uncontrolled thumping, grabs his emotions and stashes them in the back of his mind, struggling for control. He listens to Morgan's slow breathing - feels Morgan's steady hands slowly stroking his back, cradling his head, keeping him close - and leans into him, exhaling softly.

Morgan trembles when he feels Reid's morbid sigh on his skin. And suddenly he's aware of how warm Reid feels in his arms, how right it feels to touch him, his scent, yet it's not enough, and he wishes he could - God, how he wants - but, that would be wrong. And he knows it. He knows.

Morgan forces himself to open his eyes and stares at the wall, aching with the need to brush his lips against Reid's hair, to murmur him - things... - and instead remains silent, and just holds him, tight.

.

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