Pretty Boy
“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.”
