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Fic: Psychecentric Impact (1/1 Criminal Minds)
Title: Psychecentric Impact
Series: Psychecentric Space
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
frogg
Beta:fluffnutter
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Damnit.
Spoilers: S02x12 Profiler, Profiled
Warnings: No happy ending, deals with effects of sexual abuse of a minor.
Morgan opened the door, meeting Hotch's gaze for only a moment before breaking eye contact. Turning, he retreated down the hall, trusting his boss to shut the door behind him. "Reid talked to you," he said finally, the counter a meager barrier between them.
"Yes." Hotch took a seat on one of the stools. "But he didn't have to."
Grimacing, Morgan didn't answer, just poured Hotch a mug of coffee and slid it across the counter. "What do you want me to say, Hotch? That it bothers me? You already know that." The accusation was layered in resentment and petulance.
"You could tell me why it bothers you," Hotch said mildly. "Or," and he paused to take a sip, strong and black, "I could start talking and we'll just deal with whatever issues come up."
Morgan's knuckles whitened on the edge of the counter. "You just can't leave well enough alone, can you."
"I've covered for your sudden inability to make eye contact with me. I've catered to your acting like I'm going to hit you every time I get within arm's reach, to the point that I've been asked more than once if we've had a fight. You're certainly welcome to hand in your badge if you're that set on acting like a victim here, but I'm not going to okay a transfer, and I'm not going to let you continue to treat me like a leper."
By the time Hotch had even half finished, Morgan was shaking, shoulders hunched, head bowed almost to the countertop. Blunt nails scraped across the smooth surface.
Fully aware of the risk, Hotch slowly reached out, covering Derek's hand with one of his own. He barely managed to brush Morgan's fingers.
Morgan's hand jerked sideways, arm colliding with his coffee mug and sending hot liquid spilling over the edge, the mug itself flying into the wall above the sink to rain shards and dust and more coffee over the faucet and stacked dishes. It seemed all too apt a metaphor as Morgan flung himself backwards, shoving off of the cabinets too hard and falling.
Hotch was halfway around the counter, concern and guilt driving him, before Morgan's panicky "Don't!" caught up with him, freezing him in place.
Coffee burns and other minor injuries were ignored as Morgan dragged himself slowly across the floor, finally wedging himself into the corner between the stove and the refrigerator. The heels of his hands dug into his eyes, pressing down until the barriers of closed lids were paper-thin and just another source of pain.
"Morgan."
Wild laughter turned to half-hysterical sobs, swallowed down with the memories and self-loathing. "Yes, I-I," and he stopped, swallowing and pulling his legs closer, elbows hooked over his knees, "Having a. Hard time. Wrapping my brain. Around this."
The silence strung taut and painful then, its own kind of answer; Morgan shivered, clenching his teeth against the images in his mind: Reid, wrists bruised and chafed, smiling and relaxed on the plane; bruised, drugged and being tortured on that laptop screen; later, in the graveyard, weak, broken, and somehow independent in a way he'd never appeared before. A shudder of revulsion hit him when Carl's image superimposed itself on Hotch, on Gideon, his skin crawling with the memories of callused hands, unwanted and necessary.
That same revulsion ripped through him again, bile threatening, at the thought that Hotch was right here, playing witness to his fear and shame and vulnerability.
"This isn't about Reid at all, is it?" The question was soft, uncertain and somehow soothing.
Morgan warred with himself, the adult knowing without doubt that Hotch could be trusted, that the last thing Hotch would ever, could ever do would be to abuse his position. The child, though, the adolescent he'd once been, screamed at him, terrified and unwilling to submit again. Not for any reason. And Hotch had too many marks against him: size, age, authority. Especially authority.
"I'm not, we're not trying to throw our relationship in your face."
'No, you're just making me help you hurt him.' The thought hit him unexpectedly; he heard something shift, Hotch tightening his grip on the edge of the counter. 'I actually said--'
"Yes, you did." Hotch's tone was mild, bland.
Morgan shuddered again, fingers digging into his scalp. "Sorry." Not sorry he'd thought it, because that was the main issue, but sorry he'd said it. Hotch didn't need to know.
Not that Hotch wouldn't have figured it out. If he hadn't before he'd even stepped inside.
"Derek."
He could hear the helplessness, the anger. The understanding. "It's not you," he managed, rough and ragged. "You know that--" The words stuck in his throat.
"If Gideon and I were abusing him, we'd be dead already, yes, I know." There was a warm certainty in Hotch's voice. "And while part of me is furious that you'd even think either of us capable of it, the rest of me is just damned grateful you care enough to protect him like this."
"He's the little brother I always wanted, and never had." Apparently Morgan's ability to stop thoughts from becoming speech had deserted him.
"That certainly explains a lot."
Morgan laughed, somehow both sad and amused, his body relaxing a little.
"You going to be okay?"
"Eventually." Hell would freeze over before Morgan would admit it wouldn't be any time soon. At least, not around Hotch.
"I guess that's about all I can ask for." Morgan could sense Hotch's hesitation then. "Promise me one thing."
Morgan grunted.
"Let me know if there's...anything I can do."
It was a promise Morgan couldn't keep, and only served to knot him up again. He managed a shaky nod, hoping Hotch would accept it and just go.
Hotch sighed, obviously having seen Morgan's acquiescence for what it was. "Take it easy, okay? I'll just--I'll see you Monday," he finished, at a loss.
Morgan could hear Hotch's footsteps, slow and awkward. "Hotch."
The footsteps paused, hope and dread fighting for dominance.
"I thought it was over," he said in apology and explanation. Tears stung, thickening his voice. "I thought--"
"I know," Hotch stopped him from having to finish. "I know, and I'm sorry." Then he was gone, fading footsteps and the shutting of the front door all too final.
Series: Psychecentric Space
Author:
froggBeta:
fluffnutterRating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Damnit.
Spoilers: S02x12 Profiler, Profiled
Warnings: No happy ending, deals with effects of sexual abuse of a minor.
Morgan opened the door, meeting Hotch's gaze for only a moment before breaking eye contact. Turning, he retreated down the hall, trusting his boss to shut the door behind him. "Reid talked to you," he said finally, the counter a meager barrier between them.
"Yes." Hotch took a seat on one of the stools. "But he didn't have to."
Grimacing, Morgan didn't answer, just poured Hotch a mug of coffee and slid it across the counter. "What do you want me to say, Hotch? That it bothers me? You already know that." The accusation was layered in resentment and petulance.
"You could tell me why it bothers you," Hotch said mildly. "Or," and he paused to take a sip, strong and black, "I could start talking and we'll just deal with whatever issues come up."
Morgan's knuckles whitened on the edge of the counter. "You just can't leave well enough alone, can you."
"I've covered for your sudden inability to make eye contact with me. I've catered to your acting like I'm going to hit you every time I get within arm's reach, to the point that I've been asked more than once if we've had a fight. You're certainly welcome to hand in your badge if you're that set on acting like a victim here, but I'm not going to okay a transfer, and I'm not going to let you continue to treat me like a leper."
By the time Hotch had even half finished, Morgan was shaking, shoulders hunched, head bowed almost to the countertop. Blunt nails scraped across the smooth surface.
Fully aware of the risk, Hotch slowly reached out, covering Derek's hand with one of his own. He barely managed to brush Morgan's fingers.
Morgan's hand jerked sideways, arm colliding with his coffee mug and sending hot liquid spilling over the edge, the mug itself flying into the wall above the sink to rain shards and dust and more coffee over the faucet and stacked dishes. It seemed all too apt a metaphor as Morgan flung himself backwards, shoving off of the cabinets too hard and falling.
Hotch was halfway around the counter, concern and guilt driving him, before Morgan's panicky "Don't!" caught up with him, freezing him in place.
Coffee burns and other minor injuries were ignored as Morgan dragged himself slowly across the floor, finally wedging himself into the corner between the stove and the refrigerator. The heels of his hands dug into his eyes, pressing down until the barriers of closed lids were paper-thin and just another source of pain.
"Morgan."
Wild laughter turned to half-hysterical sobs, swallowed down with the memories and self-loathing. "Yes, I-I," and he stopped, swallowing and pulling his legs closer, elbows hooked over his knees, "Having a. Hard time. Wrapping my brain. Around this."
The silence strung taut and painful then, its own kind of answer; Morgan shivered, clenching his teeth against the images in his mind: Reid, wrists bruised and chafed, smiling and relaxed on the plane; bruised, drugged and being tortured on that laptop screen; later, in the graveyard, weak, broken, and somehow independent in a way he'd never appeared before. A shudder of revulsion hit him when Carl's image superimposed itself on Hotch, on Gideon, his skin crawling with the memories of callused hands, unwanted and necessary.
That same revulsion ripped through him again, bile threatening, at the thought that Hotch was right here, playing witness to his fear and shame and vulnerability.
"This isn't about Reid at all, is it?" The question was soft, uncertain and somehow soothing.
Morgan warred with himself, the adult knowing without doubt that Hotch could be trusted, that the last thing Hotch would ever, could ever do would be to abuse his position. The child, though, the adolescent he'd once been, screamed at him, terrified and unwilling to submit again. Not for any reason. And Hotch had too many marks against him: size, age, authority. Especially authority.
"I'm not, we're not trying to throw our relationship in your face."
'No, you're just making me help you hurt him.' The thought hit him unexpectedly; he heard something shift, Hotch tightening his grip on the edge of the counter. 'I actually said--'
"Yes, you did." Hotch's tone was mild, bland.
Morgan shuddered again, fingers digging into his scalp. "Sorry." Not sorry he'd thought it, because that was the main issue, but sorry he'd said it. Hotch didn't need to know.
Not that Hotch wouldn't have figured it out. If he hadn't before he'd even stepped inside.
"Derek."
He could hear the helplessness, the anger. The understanding. "It's not you," he managed, rough and ragged. "You know that--" The words stuck in his throat.
"If Gideon and I were abusing him, we'd be dead already, yes, I know." There was a warm certainty in Hotch's voice. "And while part of me is furious that you'd even think either of us capable of it, the rest of me is just damned grateful you care enough to protect him like this."
"He's the little brother I always wanted, and never had." Apparently Morgan's ability to stop thoughts from becoming speech had deserted him.
"That certainly explains a lot."
Morgan laughed, somehow both sad and amused, his body relaxing a little.
"You going to be okay?"
"Eventually." Hell would freeze over before Morgan would admit it wouldn't be any time soon. At least, not around Hotch.
"I guess that's about all I can ask for." Morgan could sense Hotch's hesitation then. "Promise me one thing."
Morgan grunted.
"Let me know if there's...anything I can do."
It was a promise Morgan couldn't keep, and only served to knot him up again. He managed a shaky nod, hoping Hotch would accept it and just go.
Hotch sighed, obviously having seen Morgan's acquiescence for what it was. "Take it easy, okay? I'll just--I'll see you Monday," he finished, at a loss.
Morgan could hear Hotch's footsteps, slow and awkward. "Hotch."
The footsteps paused, hope and dread fighting for dominance.
"I thought it was over," he said in apology and explanation. Tears stung, thickening his voice. "I thought--"
"I know," Hotch stopped him from having to finish. "I know, and I'm sorry." Then he was gone, fading footsteps and the shutting of the front door all too final.
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