Hi everyone! I wrote a sketch of this one-shot a while ago and edited it a bunch. It's meant to be post episode 9.12, "The Black Queen." I guess my brain went with an idea (if my math is wrong, please forgive me. Math isn't my forte!). Enjoy! :)

There's a degree of difficulty of dealing with me. From my haunted past, comes a daunting task of living through memories. If we could just hang a mirror on the bedroom wall, stare into the past and forget it all, we will get out of this little hell." – City and Colour, "Little Hell."

On the plane, Morgan shoved his oversized headphones on his ears and waited until the music worked its magic on his aching body. Once his muscles relaxed, Morgan exhaled, releasing all the air that seemed to get stuck somewhere inside him during cases. This particular case had ended easily enough, or as easy as a case could end in his line of work, but Morgan felt nervous. Something wasn't right, and he scanned the cabin and his teammates for reassurance.

Hotch and Dave were talking quietly in the corner. A discarded case file was on the seat next to Hotch. Dave nodded toward the file and Hotch's gaze followed. Morgan didn't need to see anymore; he knew they were rehashing the case, turning it over between them, finding an opening to dissect and analyze and to share theories with one another because old habits never completely ceased.

To his right, JJ and Garcia were caught up in a video game that made Garcia's sit on her heels out of excitement and made JJ squeal out of nervousness.

"Ok, that it, JJ! Just jump that and arrrrggg!"

"I knew I shouldn't have tried this route!" JJ protested.

"It's okay. This game took me years to figure out."

Morgan chucked because JJ and Garcia reminded him of excited children. He turned his focus away from Garcia and JJ to Blake, who was so engrossed in a book, something about linguistics by his quick scan of the title, that Morgan's gaze was unnoticed. That meant only one member of the team remained on Morgan's warped game of after-case check-up.

His eyes found Reid at the back of the plane, curled at the very end of the long bench that Reid's long limbs so often frequented. But the younger agent wasn't sleeping or reading or playing solitaire. He was staring out the window. Hard. Reid's arms were so tightly woven around each other that Morgan couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. A classic defensive posture, Morgan profiled before he could stop himself.

Morgan's stomach lurched and, suddenly, he knew why he felt so uneasy. Reid, he thought. There's something up with Reid.

The view from the plane's window was of a dark, starless sky. The weather report he'd heard on the radio on the way to the airfield had mentioned fog, and Reid sighed quietly while resting his head on the plastic top of the window. His arms worked themselves tighter around each other and across his abdomen. The violent churning in his stomach had burst suddenly - about the same time he'd plunged a needle into a man's chest.

You had to react, Reid reminded himself. Outside the plane window, DC appeared in a series of far-off lights. Muscle memory, Reid reminded himself. Reid tried to take his mind off the case, off of the needle he had held in his hands a few hours prior, but his mind jumped back to earlier that day…

After the case outside of the apartment building, he'd nodded at a compliment an EMT had thrown his way.

"Your quick thinking saved his life, agent."

Reid watched the ambulance doors close as he leaned against the brick building. The pressure of his body against something solid made the collected sweat around his spine soak through his shirt. Around him, medical personal finished assessing their patient. The muffled sounds of Morgan and Garcia's conversation wafted to him over the wails of the ambulance siren, Hotch's debriefing for local law enforcement, and the nearby squawk of a pedestrian walk signal. While propped against that brick wall, Reid had closed his eyes and given into his body's sensations as his limbs shook, his stomach twisted, and his hands recalled the ghostly imprint of the syringe. His fingers had twitched, and Reid knew they'd expected something he'd left behind.

Without wanting to, Reid thought back to the last time he'd used. Had it really been seven years since he'd held a needle while crouched on the cool tiles in his bathroom? Eyes still closed, he snaked long fingers through his sweaty hair. His knuckles grazed the bricks behind his head. He could still feel the tight belt against his bicep, bulge of an elongated blue vein, the light prick on the inside crock of his elbow, the long slide through pale skin, the bubble of red blood, and the welcomed surge of oblivion. Even now, seven years later, if he dared to look closely enough, he could just make out the small faded dots at the folds of his elbows. Seven years was a long time, but it didn't erase the kind of scars he willingly forced onto his flesh. But those memories and moments were lifetimes ago. In that little hell, he had different reasons, different ideas about what to do with a needle, and they certainly hadn't been about saving a man, but had, rather, been about destroying one.

On the plane, Reid curled himself into a smaller ball, watching as the city rushed into view. Home, Reid thought. Just go home and you can get through this.

He was so preoccupied with the burning in his stomach, the thoughts looping to old wants and needs, and the pressure building in his ears as the plane descended altitude, that Reid didn't notice how closely Morgan studied him, profiled him, and how the older agent placed the discarded pieces together to make a whole.

The cool night air felt wonderful against Morgan's flushed skin. While JJ and Blake and Reid often said the jet was cold and made sure to bring warm sweaters in their to-go bags, Morgan always felt as though it was stuffy, like there wasn't enough air. Every time they landed, Morgan felt grateful when he was outside where there was room to breathe and move.

This night, however, it appeared that Morgan wasn't the only member of the team grateful to escape.

Reid stood absentmindedly in the parking lot. His back was toward the BAU, his gaze pointed at his shoes. A few yards away on the street adjacent to the BAU parking lot was the bus stop Morgan knew Reid would walk to if he weren't in a daze, but Reid didn't seem to know how to work his legs.

Hotch materialized at Morgan's side.

"I think Reid needs to catch a movie," Hotch whispered so only Morgan would hear the reference to the past.

Morgan nodded; he thought so too. The memory of Reid with hands skyward in surrender under a blinding Texas sun intruded Morgan's mind. Hotch's order remained unsaid, but Morgan understood and he met Hotch's look. Hotch broke eye contact when he knew his order had been understood and, only then, did he start walking to his car.

Morgan waited until his boss exited the parking lot in a clamoring of a car engine followed by a sweep of yellow headlights before he inched closer to Reid and finally spoke.

"Hey, kid, you need a ride home?"

Reid glanced up from his stare on his shoes, right hand releasing the inside of his arm –– the one he'd been absently rubbing in the BAU's parking lot. It was colder here than it was in Seattle, and the wind cut through his thin jacket. Morgan's car would be warm, much warmer than waiting for the bus. He nodded yes while take a few long strides to catch up to the older agent. In unison, the walked toward Morgan's dark sedan.

The two men quietly adjusted seats and seatbelts once in Morgan's car, falling into an easy rhythm they had practiced after cases during the last nine years. Morgan twisted the radio on, keeping the volume low once the car had rumbled to life.

Morgan didn't speak but, instead, drove. In the passenger seat, Reid pressed his forehead against the glass window. Morgan noticed that the younger agent bounced his knees, picked at his cuticles, and bit his lip. Uneasiness pushed a sour taste into the back of Morgan's throat, and he swallowed it down and away. He was surprised about many things, but Reid's fidgeting shouldn't be one of them. But it is, Morgan realized. And I think you know why but don't want to accept it anyway…

Morgan hadn't been surprised Reid knew how to save Shane. He hadn't been surprised that Reid had plunged a needle into the kid's heart in some warped Pulp Fiction reenactment, although he knew mentioning the reference to the film would slide by and over Reid. He hadn't been surprised that Reid was familiar with doses and medications and drugs that could lethally interact, or even that he could possibly, in an attempt to save him, actually kill Shane.

What had surprised him, however, was the ease in which Reid grabbed and worked the syringe, like he was accustomed to needles and drugs, like he was comfortable, like the two were old friends that had been reunited after a long separation. Seven years felt like lifetimes ago, but, when Derek sat into the driver's seat next to an anxious Reid, he realized seven years wasn't that far away. Morgan understood too well that some memories were never entirely absent, never fading, and always lurking, threatening to spill into the open with one moment, one drop of defenses, and one instance of weakness.

They were both seven years older, and Reid was no longer a kid, although Derek often referred to him as one. The agent in the seat next to him still had long fingers that looked more suited for sketchbooks than gun triggers. His hair was neater and shorter and not unkempt like it once had been. Reid's frame was covered with a layer of lean with muscles and not bones that once projected at painful angles. Reid still spewed statistics at blinding speeds, read books even faster, and still beat everyone at poker games. He, they, were the same, but they weren't. They couldn't possibly be.

Seven years had taught both men a thing about loss and love and grief, but it hadn't erased all their sins. Morgan eased his tense neck into the headrest, wondering how he hadn't seen it earlier. They were older, maybe changed, definitely jaded, but one thing still remained, even if it didn't lurk behind and follow Reid, threatening to spill into the open every time he became vulnerable and scared: Spencer Reid was still an addict; he'd always be one too. In the seat next to him, Derek Morgan realized that seven years could have been yesterday and none of the time between then and now would make that realization any less painful.

Reid copied Morgan's stance and leaned against the headrest in the passenger seat, shifting his gaze to the scene outside his windows: stores and homes with darkened fronts, stoplights with too bright bulbs, a lone man walking through the night with a hunched back. Although he wanted to stop moving, although he could feel Morgan's concerned gaze, Reid couldn't help but fidget. He shifted his feet and his knees jammed against the dashboard even though the seat was pushed into its furthest, roomiest position. He clasped his hands together, unclasped them, and repeated the process a moment later. He took deep inhalations through his nose and long, slow inhalations back out, but these movements, the attempt at order, didn't matter.

Reid still felt the needle in his hands, the drugs that hadn't cursed through his veins in three years shy of decade, but, still, he craved Dilaudid. Reid bit his lip, staring out the window with even more focus on blurred fast food signs, abandoned pieces of garbage that were blowing on near-empty roads, the sidewalk the appeared and then disappeared from one part of town to the next. Reid was so preoccupied with pretending to be occupied that he didn't notice Morgan wasn't driving him home or driving him anywhere. They were circling the same streets, looping the same paths in silence except for crunching gravel underneath the car's tires and the heat that was trickling slowly from the dashboard vents.

"What's going on, Reid?"

Morgan didn't know why he spoke first, or why he usually did with Reid, but his soft voice sounded scratchy, unused, and worried. Reid didn't flinch or shift his gaze, keeping his eyes on the world outside the window.

"Not sure what you're talking about, Morgan."

A huff, "I'm pretty sure you know exactly what I'm talking about, Reid."

Morgan hadn't meant to sound so annoyed, but the inflection made Reid turn toward him. A red glow from the stoplight illuminated an angular cheekbone. Reid's expression was curious, interested, but unreadable. Derek ran a quick hand over his face to break eye contact.

"That was a really weird case…" Reid said while letting his gaze fall on various points within the car.

"We've had weirder, Pretty Boy."

Reid nodded and swallowed past a ball in his throat. His hands kept weaving patterns: breaking, forming, breaking again.

"I gotta hand it to you, kid, you did a good job with Shane." Morgan flipped on the right directional. "If that had been me, he would of died."

The car was silent except for the turn signal's even clicks.

"I just reacted like any of us would have," Reid said.

He kept his voice low, tone even, but he could feel the imprint of the needle in his hand. God, he could still feel it. The last time he'd felt this way, this desperate, was when he thought Emily had died or, more recently, when Mauve actually had died…Reid closed his eyes to the memory, opening them when the car inched forward again.

Morgan chuckled, maneuvering the steering wheel onto another road. "If you say so, Reid."

Reid knew that if Morgan were driving on the correct roads, he'd be home by now. He also knew if he was home, he'd be pacing or devouring book after book in order to stop his mind, his body, his memory. He may even try calling Emily despite the six-hour time difference. He'd done it once before, after Mauve, and she had listened for close to an hour. She hadn't asked or interrupted or pried, and when he was done, she had spoken to him in low, even tones about the things Reid had tried to push away: the case in New Orleans, how he purposefully missed the flight, his harsh words to Emily in Houston, Owen Savage and how he'd discarded his weapon into Emily's surprised arms. She reminded him of where he'd been to show him how far he'd come and he had listened until his arm ached from holding the phone to his ear. He had listened until the tremors had subsided and obsessive thoughts had quieted enough where he felt like he could function. He had stuttered an apology to Emily, who had told him he was strong and to remember everything. When the familiar click ended their conversation, Reid had fallen into a deep sleep, waking later that night feeling groggy, but refreshed.

These cravings were different, though. They were intensely physical. Maybe because of the needle, Reid told himself. His body was begging for Dilauded, and Reid, unlike through a phone line with Emily, didn't know how to explain. Morgan's aimless driving wasn't leading them anywhere Reid wanted to go, yet he felt thankful for the drive in the same way he felt reassured by Morgan's presence and the man's knowledge of what was screaming for release inside of him.

In the driver's seat, Morgan cast a sideways glance at Reid. The younger agent opened his lips, parsed them together, and sighed deeply before snaking a shaking hand through his hair.

"Reid," Morgan began, easing the car onto the side of the road.

Driving was an easy distraction, but Morgan knew he needed Reid's full attention. Once the car nudged the sidewalk curb, Morgan pushed on the hazards, only turning toward Reid when the car was in park and the engine idling.

Reid immediately turned away again, but the view from the passenger side window was obstructed by darkness. The only thing that greeted him was his own reflection, with Morgan's watchful, concerned gaze somewhere in the background.

"Reid," Morgan started again, "I'm worried about you, man. You're shaking."

Reid stared at his trembling knees and hands and at his snow-white knuckles of his hands as each gripped the tops of a thigh.

"It's nothing," he lied.

Morgan sighed deeply, exhaling all his frustration and concern into the car. Somewhere beyond the stalled car, a siren howled a warning.

"I've never seen you grab a syringe like that before, man." Morgan admitted in a nonchalant, careful tone –– one he knew Reid detected as false.

Reid flinched, tensing his shoulders upward to his head before relaxing the muscles away from his ears. He sighed too, choosing to stare at the front windshield when he finally spoke after a long pause.

"I know how to use a needle, Morgan. Just as much as I know what you're insinuating."

"Then tell me what's going on, Reid. If you already think I know, tell me then."

Reid glanced at Morgan, assessing the man's logic, his worried brown eyes, the wrinkled skin on the man's forehead, his unwavering focus even though he was uncomfortable. Outside, the wind slammed against the car.

"I want to use, alright?" Reid mumbled, defeated as his cheeks singed with hot shame. "I'd give anything to use right now, actually…"

Morgan blinked, tried to keep his expression calm, his fear suppressed into a box that maybe one day he'd release at the gym or on a night spent at loud, crowded dance clubs.

"It's been a long time. Seven years."

Reid turned so quickly at Morgan's words that a stabbing pain shot up his neck.

"I remember too, Reid."

The younger agent nodded, gaze falling to the console between the two agents before landing on Morgan's once more.

"I feel like that…when I…it was lifetimes ago," Reid paused to find the right words, "but holding that syringe tonight felt familiar, Morgan. I didn't just know what to do, but I had plans to do other things. It's like my body remember from a simple touch and now it expects Dilauded."

Morgan nodded, lips forming into a fine line. Reid's eyes were away from his again and the younger agent shifted in the seat. His legs bobbed up and down, his arms pulled tightly around his stomach, and his fingernails dug into each forearm.

"It's alright to feel like you want to use again, Reid. Or even like you need to. I don't have to tell you that."

Reid nodded, and Morgan waited to continue speaking.

"But it's not alright to stay silent about that urge to use and your feelings behind them, kid. You know that doesn't work."

Reid groaned in frustration and relief. He was sure he had hidden his cravings on the flight home by escaping to the back of the plane and its view of the dark night sky. He was almost positive his quick descent down the stairs after they'd landed at the BAU would prevent anyone from proposing a ride to his apartment. But the air had been cold, and he had been momentarily distracted and disarmed when Morgan had so casually offered him a ride home.

"I can feel everything, Morgan,"

Reid leaned forward so his head was close to the dashboard. The seatbelt dug into his stomach.

"I feel desperate. It's like I never stopped."

Morgan resisted the urge to reach out and pull Reid into a hug. The kid would never let him. Even after all these years, physical contact was still a boundary Morgan respected, even though Reid had dropped that façade on numerous occasions.

"When was the last time you felt this way?"

Morgan's tone was soft, and seemed to calm the younger man, who released his rigid back muscles and straightened his posture so he was once again staring out the windshield.

"When Emily…When Mauve…"

But Reid didn't need to finish his sentence because Morgan knew. He remembered too well how Emily's "death" had sent them all into a tailspin. He had been engulfed by darkness so heavy and so pressing that there were moments when breathing hurt. Morgan wasn't surprised that Reid had wanted to stop his grief, his darkness, with a drug that could make him forget everything. He thought of Mauve too, but he didn't dare ask about that darkness, that grief that he had seen grab Reid so forcefully that he was afraid the man would never fully return.

"Seven years…" It was Morgan's turn to trail off.

He shook his head before reaching for the ignition and turning the key. The engine purred to life and the car inched forward when Morgan shifted into drive.

Reid stared at him, hard, like he'd never really seen him before, like the years between the two weren't heavy, weighted with atrocities and pain and the very worst that the world and its people had to offer. In the moment Morgan eased the car back onto the road, Reid understood they were driving simultaneously away and ahead.

"Where should I go, Reid?" Morgan asked.

Reid leaned against the headrest once more, closing his eyes before opening them again. He thought to the bookmarked groups and times and locations he'd saved on his computer. He'd looked at the list Monday, per his usual weekly assessment that had become some kind of start-his-week routine, but it had been a long time since he attended a meeting. His mind pictured the gatherings: the basements and churches and town halls and universities with their cold metal chairs, nameless strangers, and pitchers of burned coffee. He thought how no one would judge him or even ask about his presence, but he also thought about how he'd relate –- how someone would say something, a simple sentence or phrase or acknowledgement, that made everything fall into place. It was humbling not to have all the answers. It was terrifying to never know what to expect.

"Ahh, turn left. There's one at the town hall up on the corner."

Morgan nodded, maneuvering the car onto the correct street. He didn't know how he knew Reid had all the NA meetings committed to memory, but he had. In the passenger seat, Reid dropped his hand into his pocket and felt his worn five-year coin. It felt cold against his grasp.

Soon, the two men sat in an idling car once again. Outside the window, a small building illuminated the darkened road with bright light that spilled onto the barren streets. Reid swallowed down his nerves. He hadn't realized they were so close. He felt tied to the seat.

Morgan was already moving, unbuckling his seatbelt, and exiting the car. Reluctantly, Reid followed. Outside, the wind howled, pushing Reid's hair into his eyes. He shoved the tangled knots out of his face.

"Ready, Reid?"

At his side, Morgan stared at him. Reid shook his head no, but met Morgan's strong gaze. The look told him he had no choice. Reid didn't know how to say he'd be forever grateful to find himself out of options. His stomach lurched so violently that Reid thought he'd be sick. He turned his face to the sky, but it was too obscured by fog to show any stars.

"Reid…" Morgan trailed off, placing a hesitant hand on Reid's shoulder.

Reid momentarily tensed, sighing before nodding at his shoes. Morgan returned his hand to his side. It wasn't a strong yes, but Morgan knew Reid understood what needed to happen.

"Yeah, let's go, Morgan."

Derek shoved his hands inside his pockets, matching Reid's steps with equally long ones.

Seven years was a long time. Seven years was somewhere in the past. Seven years was still too close.

At the end of small set of steps, Reid yanked the door open, and an onslaught of heat warmed the two agents and their frozen, exposed skin. The men stepped inside, following the sound of a gathering down empty halls and past closed doors and deserted offices. In a large meeting hall, Reid and Morgan found two empty metal chairs in the back of a crowded collection of people.

Derek shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but he noticed Reid remained still, attentive, focused on the men and women who were speaking. He didn't make a move to enter the conversation or request to address the room, but the kid looked calmer than he had since he walked onto the plane hours earlier and immediately dove for the seat furthest in the back away from the rest of the team and their prying eyes.

Morgan watched Reid's expression soften and his muscles ease. He watched him nod along when he agreed and look away when he was hit with a sudden realization that his brilliant mind – – and all of its rationalizations and knowledge and cravings –– hadn't thought of before. Morgan watched and waited and pretended he wasn't as scared as he felt. He didn't try to understand why Reid empathized or when he felt caught off guard, but, instead, he just protected Reid by staying in that uncomfortable chair that reminded him of all the hospital ones he'd sat in over the years during some quiet vigil punctuated by desperate, internal prayers that always surfaced at the very moment Derek Morgan thought he'd fallen completely away from any type of faith.

Morgan hadn't noticed that the meeting had disbanded until Reid stood on creaking limbs, stretching toward to the ceiling before turning toward Morgan while nodding at the exit. The two weaved around others while buttoning coats, turning collars against the bitter night wind.

Outside, neither men spoke, but Morgan's sturdy work boots matched Reid's scuffed converse sneakers. Reid hadn't been to a meeting in years, and he hadn't felt this drained from one in an even longer amount of time, although he knew from the exhaustion pumping through his muscles that he probably should have gone to one years ago, perhaps when Emily had "died." Definitely when Mauve had.

Reid felt worn, older, but calmer. The urge for Dilaudid was still surging through his veins and repeating in his mind, but the strength of his desire for oblivion was shrinking, growing smaller and smaller as the time continued. After seven years, the force of his cravings still surprised him. At times, it felt like he'd never be done with this endless recovery.

Once in the car, the agents dropped into their respective seats. Morgan shoved the key into the ignition, turning the car to on with a quick twist of the wrist. For a while, they waited for the blasting air to turn from cold to warm. Reid held his icy fingers over the heating vent.

"Hey, Morgan?" Reid asked once the feeling in his fingers began to come back. Derek nodded, copying Reid's finger-warming strategy.

"Seven years isn't that long."

Morgan gave Reid a sad smile. "No, man, it isn't. No amount of years is when you have something after you, when you have something that won't leave you.

Reid returned the sad smile in Morgan's direction and the notion of understanding and comfort didn't go unnoticed. Morgan broke eye contact by staring at the empty road stretched in front of them.

"Than–"

"You hungry, Reid?" Morgan interrupted Reid's attempt at gratitude. "There's a 24-hour diner up the street."

Reid stared at Morgan before he clicked his seatbelt into place and answered with a soft yes.

Morgan shifted the car into drive, leaving the meeting behind them with a small push on the gas pedal. He didn't need to hear Reid's "thank you" or an explanation of Reid's past drug use or even for Reid to acknowledge what happened to him and how he felt during that meeting. He didn't want to rehash the previous day's case with Reid, the memory of the syringe in Reid's hand, or the way time was never as concrete as either one believed. Morgan didn't need to think back to seven years to remember what had been at stake and, for a time, almost lost. Seven years was lifetimes ago, and seven years wasn't that far from where they were now.

Next to him, Reid, once more, preferred the view of the darkened world outside the passenger window. A weak crescent moon followed the car. Reid stared hard, blinked back tears of appreciation, and turned toward Morgan when his composure was no longer wavering and threatening to spill out between the two men.

"Seven years is a long time, but maybe it's not that long, Morgan. I need to remember that."

"We all do, Reid. Whatever it is, whatever the pain, or the reason for running, we all need to know that demons are never far. It doesn't matter how many years fill in the gaps in the middle. Who knows, tomorrow everything could end."

Reid nodded, swallowing down the lump that had suddenly formed in this throat. Where would he be in another seven years? In seventeen?

"Running gets exhausting," Reid acknowledged after a long pause.

Morgan nodded. Reid could tell by the way Morgan's expression softened that he understood more than he'd ever openly admit, but Reid knew and that was enough for now. The car came to a stop at a red light, and Reid waited for the light to switch to green before he spoke again.

"Sometimes I think that I'm not far from deconstructing. That we all aren't really."

Morgan tightened his grip on the steering wheel and pressed his lips together. This isn't what I expected to hear after he went to a meeting, Morgan's inner voice argued. This is too heavy…too much.

"That could happen, Reid. I guess we don't really have the best track record."

Morgan didn't have to say their names because ghosts from the past fluttered into the car between the two men: Elle, Gideon, Emily.

Reid nodded, stifling a yawn. It was late, and his cravings and the meeting had left him feeling drained and empty, but he had to let Morgan know. He had to tell him he understood what had been precariously perched on some internal cliff before Morgan had, once again, caught Reid before he fell over the edge.

"I guess I didn't implode these past seven years because I was lucky. Or at least it feels that way sometimes. I'm really lucky, Morgan. I don't think I've ever really told you that before, but I am, and I just wanted you to know."

Reid sent an appraising look and a soft smile to the older agent. The weight of Reid's insinuated thanks hit Morgan's chest and he swallowed deeply. In the driver's seat, Morgan was suddenly glad for the task of steering the car toward the diner. Otherwise, Reid would see the tears that had collected in his eyes.

"Me too, Reid." He replied. "Me too."

Outside the window, the road curved and turned, and led away and beyond. In the rear-view mirror, what was left behind faded from memory, as if it had been a mirage, wavering and waiting to disappear from sight all along.