Chapter Text
Reid?
I don't know why I'm trying this again. I don't even think you can hear me, but the doctors said to give it a shot so what the hell, right?
It's been three days. Three fucking days and they're starting think something's wrong, really wrong. And I know it's pathetic, sitting here, talking to you like you're going to magically sit up and start quoting Shakespeare at me, but I just, I just can't go on without you. I can't lose you, kid. I can't. Not after everything we've been through together, not now.
We're all here, the whole team. We're just waiting for you to wake up. I know you're tired, that you probably just want to sleep and never... never wake up, but we need you. We need you, kid. God, I need you. I need to see you one more time, I need to say I'm sorry for all the shit I put us through. I need -
It might be selfish to say this - hell, I know it is - but I don't give a damn about what you want. I don't give a damn if you just want to give up and die on this fucking hospital bed, because you can't do this. You can't give up on us, kid.
Please come back to us. Please, Spencer.
Please wake up.
-:-
One Month Later
The couple of steps up to the house's front porch looked like a mountain looming in front of him. Everything ached - his legs, his head, his arms. The route from his apartment in DC to Morgan's house out near the suburbs was not a short trip.
Groaning, he slowly made his way up each stone step. He'd made it all the way here; a tiny staircase wasn't going to stop him now. Knocking took some finageling; adjusting the crutches tucked under each arm (thank god his ribs had finally healed enough for them, he was so done with that wheelchair), while simultaneously making sure his bag didn't fall off his shoulder.
Footsteps came from inside the house, before locks were opened and the door swung towards him. And then there was Morgan, eyes tinged with red and wearing sweatpants and a loose t-shirt. White bandages circled his thumbs and wrapped around his wrist and forearm, disappearing up both the sleeves of his shirt. A sling kept one arm firmly buckled to his side.
"Reid?" He asked, blinking several times before opening the door farther. "Jesus, it's like ten degrees out, come inside."
"Twelve degrees Fahrenheit, actually." He said quietly, stepping over the doorway. The door closed behind him and he sighed, savoring the warmth of the house.
"How the hell are you here?" Morgan asked, going into the living room and helping him sit on one of the couches.
"I took the subway."
"It's the almost eleven! And it's the middle of winter. You're on crutches! Are you trying to get mugged?" The man ran a heavy hand over his face, sighing loudly. "Look, Reid, why are you here?"
"Maybe because a certain friend of mine refuses to answer any of my texts or calls. I believe there's been fifty seven of them in the past six days." He answered pointedly, shaking as a shiver wracked his body. A beat passed, as the words strengthened the tension between them. "Sorry, I - "
Morgan cut him off. " - Do you want coffee? Something to drink should warm you up."
Understanding what his friend was doing, he nodded, wrapping his thin cardigan tighter around himself. "Thanks."
Minutes passed when Morgan was in the kitchen. His hand rubbed harshly against his thigh, working out the constant knots that appeared. With his patella shattered, the brace he had to use took up most of his right leg. The thing the doctors neglected to tell him was just how much that would make his left leg hurt.
That little itch appeared in the back of his mind again. The one that held mental images of needles and tourniquets and track marks. The one that sent every spark of pain - in his stomach, his knee, his leg, his head, his chest - running through his mind all at once. The one that offered release from it all.
Ignoring those thoughts, he glanced around the house, trying not to profile it but secretly closing little bits of knowledge into his head for later. Everything was cluttered, slightly messy. Plates left out, a blanket laying on the floor. Clothes strewn in random places. He'd been to Morgan's house before; then, it was clean. Lived-in, but orderly. This was different.
Depression. The word floated up, buoyed by years of having to profile rooms in addition to people. Everything here screamed 'too tired to clean.'
No wonder he hadn't talked to them.
A few minutes later, Morgan walked back in, carrying a single cup of steaming liquid. He took it eagerly, grateful to have something to warm himself up. One sip and a horribly burned tongue later, he looked up, a look of betrayal covering his face. "This is decaf."
"You'll stay up all night if you drink caffeine this late, or do you not remember Tulsa?" Morgan looked down at the heavy brace on his leg, before glancing up again. "And didn't the doctors say you weren't supposed to have caffeine for a while?"
"Maybe." He conceded quietly, taking another sip of the blisteringly hot beverage. "Did I wake you up? I really didn't mean to come over this late, but the subway really isn't made for people on crutches and just the ride itself was over an hour, far longer than the average ride of - "
Morgan cut him off. "It's fine, I wasn't asleep yet." Judging by the dark under eye circles on the older man's face, this obviously meant 'I wasn't able to fall asleep.'
Silence reigned for a few moments, and he could see Morgan retreating further into himself, hands clenching slightly at his side. "So, uh, when are you supposed to go back to work?" He cringed at the awkward and obvious change of topic, but he had to keep Morgan focused on him if he was going to help.
"Hotch gave me two weeks, but I'll probably go back in on Monday. I can type, just not write yet." The words made him unconsciously looked down at Morgan's hands, and he winced at the reddened, burnt skin visible outside the bandage. It looked similar to his legs, just... less. Less red, less blistered. It's already starting to scar. He knew how painful it must be. Similar marks lined his lower half. "You?"
"The doctors are saying at least a month before I can go back on desk duty to make sure I don't rip my stitches or mess up the grafts, but PT's going pretty well so I'm hopeful."
"Good." Morgan said shortly, looking down in his lap.
He took another long sip of his coffee, trying desperately to think of ways to keep the conversation going. When none came to mind, he just sighed. "You always avoid the topic. You hide behind charm and niceties in order to ignore what you're scared of. I know you might want to, but this isn't something you can ignore. Can we please just talk about it?"
"What?" Morgan asked, his body language shifting so fast it was like a completely different person was in front of him. From resigned, shameful, to tense. Angry. A slight bite of bitterness was held in his tone. "What could you possibly want to talk about, Reid?"
He fought to keep his own voice calm. "You haven't been cleaning and you obviously haven't been sleeping. You've clenched your hands so much in the past few minutes it's developing into a tick. This room and your actions read so obviously I'd have to be blind not to see it."
Morgan's head snapped up at that, fury blazing in his dark eyes. "You're profiling me?!"
"Yes, I'm profiling you. I'm profiling you because you refuse to talk to us. It's been a week since I got out of the hospital Morgan, two for you, and yet, you haven't said a single word to me or anyone else on the team since I woke up!"
"Get out! I'm not going to sit here and listen to - "
"And I'm not just going to sit back and let you tear yourself apart!" His voice was loud, bordering on yelling. Taking a few deep breaths, he gently placed his coffee mug on the table. "We're worried about you, and for good reason. Garcia's been calling me, crying because you aren't talking to her. I only barely managed to convince Emily to let me talk to you alone. Maybe I should've just let them come - I can smell the guilt coming off you from here."
"Damn right!" Morgan quickly stood, swiping a hand across the table and sending the mug and a few books crashing to the floor. It shattered, but Morgan ignored it. "Damn right, I'm guilty!"
"Why?"
"You know why! Shit, I was the one who crashed the car, kid! I forgot everything I'd ever been taught about handling and evasive driving. You told me we should stop and I didn't fucking listen, I didn't listen. And then... and then I had to go and try and start the car, and you.... you almost..." His voice trailed off, eyes closing.
'Died' went unspoken.
"I was awake. That whole fucking time, I was awake. I watched as you burned alive in that car. I listened to you as you screamed for me to help you. You said.... you said goodbye to me, you apologized. I watched you die." A sob left Morgan's throat and Reid felt a part of himself wilt at the horrible sound. "And then, in the hospital, you wouldn't wake up. You, you were lying there, hooked up to all these machines, and the doctors were saying that that might be... it. That your body might just give out from the stress the surgeries had put on it, or that the burns might get infected. They told me... they said I should be prepared to say goodbye."
"I.... I didn't know." Reid said quietly. "I didn't know they told you that."
Morgan was breathing heavily, hands clenched desperately at his side. He refused to look him in the eye, refused to meet his gaze.
"It would've been my fault, if you died. All of this is my fault. And I know, I know you don't remember any of it, shit, I'm happy you don't remember, but I do. And now your knee's fucked up again and you have burns so bad you had to get skin grafts and it's my fault, mine."
Silence fell over them. Morgan's entire frame was virtually shaking with tension as he took deep, harsh breaths.
Eventually, Spencer just reached out and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We survived. I'm here, you're here, everything is fine." He spoke gently, carefully. "You saved me, Morgan. I don't care about anything else. You stayed with me, in that forest. When my lung collapsed, you were the one who breathed for me for half an hour before the EMTs arrived. JJ told me you sat at my bedside, refusing to move for three days, not caring about your injuries. She said you talked to me, told me stories. You think, after all that, I care that you made a mistake?"
"You should." Morgan finally looked up, eyes glassy with barely contained tears. "You should hate me."
"I would never hate you, Derek. I don't think I could hate you even if I wanted to. I... I love you." He moved his hand gently, slowly, up to the man's cheek. His eyes closed as something - not a memory, but almost - came back to him. Lying, numb, the only feeling warm skin on his hand. "I love you."
And finally, Morgan let the first tears fall. They came with harsh sobs and a smothering one-armed hug. They came with whispered words and gentle touches as they sat back on the couch, taking comfort in each other's life.
It was a while, before Morgan stopped crying. Before he sat back and wiped the tears away and, chagrined, said 'sorry' for the wetness staining Reid's cardigan. Before he offered to get another cup of coffee (a real one, Spencer insisted, doctor's orders be damned).
After, they cleaned - an interesting process with three arms and three legs between them. They put away the dirty dishes and empty beer bottles, the worn clothes and misplaced blankets. Swept up shards of glass. Made the room look right: lived-in, but orderly.
The sun rose when they collapsed back on the couch. It draped the room in purples and pinks, reds and oranges. And it was then, slings, crutches, gauze, and all, that they fell asleep.
Together.