"Morgan, what was he talking about? What's wrong? Am I...am I going to die?" Reid winces as he forces the upper half of his body into an upright position, his words becoming jumbled and panicky. Morgan crosses the room regretfully, suddenly wishing he hadn't volunteered to break the news.

"You're fine, kid. You're fine," Morgan reassures, gently pushing Reid back into a lying position before taking a seat next to him. This time, he doesn't bother grabbing his hand. He isn't sure how to face what's coming next.

"Look, Reid...you took the worst of the accident. We rolled onto your side first. We slammed into the tree on your side." Morgan pauses, his eyes wandering aimlessly around the room for anything that could take him out of this moment.

"I know that, Morgan," Reid responds confusedly. "You told me. The doctors and nurses told me."

"Right," Morgan says, still avoiding Reid's lost eyes. "Do you know why I didn't pull you out of the car myself?"

"I dunno, Morgan!" There is a sense of urgency in the profiler's rapidly raising voice. "You were scared of hurting me, I guess." Morgan nods gravely.

"That and, well…" he takes a series of deep breaths, closes his eyes, and then opens them again. Despite what Reid or anyone else tries to tell him, Morgan can't shake the feeling that the whole thing is his fault. His mom always told him that if he were man enough to do something, he were man enough to admit to it. He keeps her voice in the back of his mind as he finally turns and looks at Reid directly.

"You were trapped in the car, Reid. The whole right side of the hood was smashed in. The door wouldn't open, and I couldn't break the window because you were leaned up against it." Morgan stops again, realizing that he is adding in unnecessary details to prolong the deliverance of his actual news. "There was nothing I could do to help you," he finally says, feeling weak in that he can't get the words out. Morgan buries his face in his hands and takes a few controlled breaths, flinching slightly when Reid touches his arm comfortingly.

"Morgan...please, just tell me."

"Okay," the older man whispers, lowering his hands from his face. Reid pulls his own hand away from Morgan's arm, his eyes silently searching his face for any hint as to why his friend is being so hesitant. "But before I do, I need you to know that I will always, always be your friend, okay? No matter what happens at work, or to you, to us...you'll always have me."

"Morgan, you're scaring me."

"I'm sorry. Sorry." Reid has never seen Morgan act so nervously before. He'd always known the agent to be incredibly confident and proud. And all of this talk about something happening? He wishes he'd just come out and say whatever needs to be said. It can't be any worse than the torture of not knowing.

"The doctor says you may never walk again."

If Morgan thought time had slowed down in the moments following the accident, then this is like an old video cassette that's had the tape ripped out, balled up into someone's fist, and carelessly shoved back in its cartridge. With no regard to Reid's reaction, Morgan stands up and crosses the room, striking his fist as hard as he can against the brick wall before resting his forehead against it.

"God, I'm an idiot. I'm such a fucking idiot."

For an agonizingly long three minutes, the room is deathly silent, save for the soft beeping of a heart monitor. Morgan stands with his head pressed firmly against the wall, clenching and unclenching his swollen fist as blood drips from his knuckles and onto the floor. Behind him on the bed, Reid is unmoving. In fact, the man who can solve four-page equations in his sleep doesn't think at all. The same eight words play over and over again in his head like a scratched record, threatening to rip his brain right in half.

What will he do now? There's no way the FBI will let someone confined to a wheelchair work for them. Sure, he could just stay behind at the office and do paperwork or offer his knowledge from afar, but what would be the point? Why be on a team if he can't even play the game? What will his mother think? Will she say, "I told you, Spencer. I told you they were going to kill us both eventually?" Will he even be able to see her anymore? Are paralyzed individuals allowed to fly? Paralyzed...paralyzed. No, that word doesn't sound right. Spencer Reid can't be paralyzed. He graduated high school at twelve years old. He has three Ph.D.'s. He was supposed to do great things with his life! All of his dreams come crashing down around him at once, and Reid is simply too weak and broken to stop them.

Once the initial shock and denial of it all has worn off, Reid regains his senses and looks up at the man who has his back towards him, his fist clinched to the point that his naturally dark knuckles are whiter than the sheets on the hospital bed. New, even more relenting thoughts grow in Reid's brain like a poisonous vine, somehow making him feel worse than before. Even if he can't walk ever again, even if he never gets to experience the satisfaction of talking down an UnSub without losing a single life, Reid will move on. He'll bury himself in books and versus himself in chess games. He'll work up strength in his upper body to make up for the lack of usage of his legs. He'll live, but what about Morgan? At least for Reid, he can't actually feel the wounds - not yet, anyway. As hard as he tries to hide it, Morgan wears his guilt more obviously than the holster of his gun. Psychical wounds heal. They eventually stop hurting and are forgotten completely. It's the wounds of the heart that are truly painful and everlasting.

"Morgan?" Reid's voice comes out small and broken. He barely recognizes it as his own. He clears his throat and tries again. "Morgan, you're bleeding." Morgan doesn't answer him. Instead, he brings his bleeding hand up to the wall and places his palm flat against it, letting it slide slowly down as he twists around so that his back is now up against the bricks. He still doesn't look at Reid - how could he? - as he lets the rest of his body follow his hand all the way to the floor. After all the things he's seen in his career, after all the murder and blood and taking down the bad guys, this is the thing that breaks him.

"Morgan?" Reid asks again. He can just barely see the tip of his friend's head from his position on the floor, so he attempts to readjust himself in the bed. It doesn't work, and when he can't take the pain in his chest any longer, Reid falls back down on the pillow in defeat. "Derek," he tries again, opting to use his first name to hopefully get his attention. "Can you please come here? I can't see you."

Something is mumbled from the floor that Reid doesn't quite catch, but it sounds suspiciously like "Why would you want to?"

"Come on, Derek. Please? I'd come to you, but…" Reid trails off. He isn't ready to say it. He can't. Saying it makes it real. Still though, his unspoken acknowledgement of his condition shakes something loose in Morgan, who finally rises to his feet and slowly approaches the bed.

"Sit down," Reid instructs, pain shooting through his heart when Morgan can't bring himself to look at him. "No. Here." He pats an empty spot on the bed when Morgan starts to sit in the chair. The agent hesitates, but eventually does what is asked of him, staring out the window in silence.

"Can I see your hand?" When Morgan doesn't answer, Reid takes it anyway. The germaphobe uses his bare thumb to wipe away the blood on Morgan's knuckles, getting a better look at his busted skin. "You shouldn't have done that. Every year, more than six-hundred and forty-eight thousand people become infected by an unrelated virus during a hospital stay. Seventy-five thousand of them die. You know, most people think hospitals are among the most sterile places in existence, but there are actually a staggering number of bacterias that are immune to most cleaning chemicals. Open-wounds increase the likelihood of infection by nearly eighty percent."

Morgan keeps his eyes trained on the window, wondering to himself how anyone could possibly be worried about a harmless bacteria getting the very person who ruined his life sick. He doesn't deserve for Reid to care about him, and had half-expected to be yelled at and kicked out. Instead, he's sitting on his bed while Reid gently caresses his newest wound, despite the blood that still seeps out. It isn't fair.

"Morgan, tell me what happened to my legs."

No response.

"Derek, please." Reid's grip on Morgan's hand tightens. The latter doesn't have it in him to squeeze back. He rattles off the injuries like a programmed robot, still not looking away from the hopeless world outside.

"Clean break to the left Tibia. Crushed right Fibula. Possible extensive damage to the nerves and muscle. Lots of blood loss."

Reid scans the vast sea of knowledge in his brain for about ten seconds, rapidly pulling out everything he's ever read on broken bones, leg injuries, muscles, and nerves. "There's a twenty-seven percent chance that I'll walk again," he finally states, his voice surprisingly emotionless. "The bones will heal with proper care, as will any muscle damage. Despite popular belief, the nerves are actually quite resilient to these things, and can even heal on their own. Some doctors and scientists argue that nerve damage is irreversible, but there have been one hundred and twenty-two cases worldwide over the past one hundred and fifty-six years in which a previously paralyzed patient has walked again, with or without the assistance of various medical techniques. If you take into account the -"

"Reid," Morgan finally says, tracing his thumb over the young man's cold hand to calm him. "No offense, but please stop." The fact that only one hundred-and-something people have ever recovered worldwide over that many years doesn't exactly make Morgan feel any better. If anything, it just adds to his nausea.

"Right, sorry," Reid mumbles, letting his hand fall from Morgan's and to his side. "Hey, Morgan?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you look at me?"

Slowly but surely, Morgan breaks his fixation away from the window, turning his head and allowing his eyes to fall onto his best friend, who, even after being told he may never walk again because of him, is still his best friend. It doesn't matter what the world throws at Reid. There is nothing that can weaken his beautiful soul.

"What is it, Pretty Boy?"

"Nothing," Reid replies seriously, "I just wanted to make sure you weren't too ashamed to look me in the eyes."

Morgan almost loses himself at the heartbreakingly innocent words, but he forces a smile instead, bringing his hand up to stroke the side of Reid's pale cheek. "You're not gonna get rid of me that easily, kid."

"Good," Reid laughs, bringing his own hand up to wrap around Morgan's wrist. "Because if I'm going to be stuck in bed for awhile, I need someone to annoy."

Morgan and Reid have been sitting in a very comfortable silence for the last little bit. Reid has been napping on and off all day, and Morgan has been sprawled out on the couch, staring up at the tv without really paying attention to it. He's just about to doze off when a knock at the door startles him.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." In walks Dr. Ramirez, in his usual white coat and carrying his usual wooden clipboard. He takes a moment to assess the machines around Reid and scribble things down onto his chart before speaking again. "Things are looking very well, Dr. Reid. We're going to take you off the morphine drip now, but I must advise you that things may get very uncomfortable once it wears off. We can give you -"

"No." Reid interrupts the doctor boldly, who seems somewhat taken aback. "Tylenol will be just fine."

"Sir, you understand that -"

"I do, and Tylenol is fine."

Morgan turns away and pretends to scratch at the back of his head. He isn't used to Reid being so...blunt. Besides, this is one of the other issues that Morgan has yet to address. He is surprised that Reid hasn't mentioned it thus far, or at the very least demanded for the I.V. to be removed. Morgan has tried, and failed, several times to bring the subject up, but it never seems like a good time. He just hopes that Reid isn't mad at him for not telling the doctors to not give him narcotics. If he is, he hasn't shown it yet. But that is just one of the many qualities about Reid - he is good at hiding his emotions, even in a room full of profilers.

"Very well then." Dr. Ramirez writes something down on his clipboard, looking back up at Reid only when he's finished. "I'm going to give you a prescription, though. It's a higher dosage than what you'd find over-the-counter. You'll be on antibiotics as well, to ensure your wounds don't get infected."

"Thank you. When can I go?" Reid's voice still holds a tinge of annoyance behind it, but not nearly as evident as before.

"If all goes well, I'd like to see you out of here by tomorrow. We'll stop the morphine, get you to eat something, and then stop the artificial nutrients as well. A nurse will be in shortly to remove your I.V.'s and a few of these machines, but I'd like to try something with you, if that's okay."

Reid hesitates for a moment, his eyes finding Morgan's for some form of reassurance. The older agent nods, and Reid finally agrees. "Yeah, I guess that would be okay."

"Excellent." Dr. Ramirez looks over at Morgan, back at Reid, and then to Morgan again - an unspoken request.

"It's fine," Reid says, reading his doctor's mind. "He can stay."

"The nature of this exercise may make the both of you a little...uncomfortable." Dr. Ramirez chooses his words wisely, not attempting to sway Reid's decision in either direction, but merely prepare him for what's about to happen.

"You know," Morgan says, standing up and wandering over next to Reid, "I'm pretty hungry and this hospital food isn't doing it. If you want those I.V.'s to stay out, you need to eat something, too. Why don't I go out and get us some takeout or something?"

"I…" Reid falters. He doesn't necessarily mind being left alone in the hospital, he just has some trust issues after the incident with Hankel, and having a stranger poking and prodding him without a friend to be supportive is one of the things that makes him anxious. Sensing this, Morgan squats down and puts a hand on Reid's bare arm.

"Reid, look at me." Morgan doesn't continue until he looks at him. "There's a Chinese place just around the block. I will be right back. I promise."

"O-okay," the other man stutters, still unsure of being left alone for the first time since the accident. "But I get to eat your fortune cookie."

Morgan can't hide the grin that forms on his lips, and he makes no effort to try. Laughs have been few and far between lately, and seeing Reid acting somewhat like his old self is even more rare. "We'll discuss it," he teases, though he already knows he'll give in. Morgan ruffles Reid's hair before nodding at Dr. Ramirez and walking out of the room.

It only takes Morgan ten minutes to get the food, and he is surprised to see Reid sitting alone in his room, his expression unreadable. Morgan walks in and sits the bag of food down on the table, growing concerned when Reid doesn't acknowledge his presence. He touches his shoulder lightly, and Reid jumps. He looks up at Morgan, wide-eyed and tearful.

"Hey, what happened? What's wrong?" Morgan's heart speeds up. He promised Reid that he wouldn't let anyone hurt him again. Had he just broken that? "Come on, kid. Talk to me."

"I couldn't feel it."

"What?" Morgan sits down in the chair, rubbing his temple as a reaction to Reid's short response. "What are you talking about?" He examines the man up and down, taking note that both I.V.'s, his oxygen cannula, and the dreaded tube that ran up underneath of his blanket had all been removed. "It didn't hurt when they took all that stuff out of you? Isn't that good?" Morgan keeps his question broad, though by "stuff," he really only means one thing. He almost winces at the thought.

"No...that hurt worse than the time I got shot," Reid replies, no evidence that his statement is meant to be taken as a joke. "Dr. Ramirez...he said he wanted to try something. So he - he took his hand and pushed a little. I could feel his gloves on my head, my neck, my chest, my stomach, my waist, and my knees. But below that...nothing."

Morgan stares at Reid in utter silence. From the moment that Dr. Ramirez asked him to try something, he knew what it was going to be. He knew that Reid probably wouldn't feel anything in his legs given that he hadn't mentioned feeling any pain in them. He knew it, but he refused to absorb it. Call it denial if you will, but to Morgan, it's different than that. He knew it and he accepted it, but he somehow blocked it out of his mind. It was his way of protecting the emotions that come with it. But now, seeing Reid speechless and on the verge of tears, there is no escaping it.

Instead of fumbling for words that he knows he'll never truly find, Morgan instead pulls out two white boxes of chicken and rice. He opens one up, sticks a plastic fork in it, and hands it to Reid. Reid takes it, but sits it down on his lap uninterestedly. "Eat, man. I want to get you out of here."

Reluctantly, Reid picks up his fork and takes a small bite of General Tso's chicken. He doesn't realize how hungry he truly is until the sweet and savory sauce hits his tongue, and he momentarily forgets all of his problems as the two of them eat their food in silence.

"It's okay that you don't know what to say," Reid comments once he's finished, closing up the now empty box and placing it on the table next to his soda. Morgan looks down at his shoes, having not expected for him to say that. "Actions speak louder than words, you know?" It is an ironic question, considering the kind of work that they do.

"What do you mean?" Morgan asks softly.

"Morgan, I understand that the rest of the team has a job to do and I respect that they can't be here right now, but every time I've opened my eyes, you've been sitting right here. You live ten minutes away. You didn't have to stay here every night on the couch, but you did. Not because you got orders from Hotch or because you had to stay due to your own injuries. You just...did. I don't expect you to know what to say or tell me how I should feel. I can't even process any of this myself."

A silence follows Reid's words. Morgan knows that he should say something, but he hadn't at all expected Reid to get so deep in his feelings. Over the years, he's learned that the young agent likes to stay confined inside the walls of his own heart. It can be dangerous at times, but Morgan has always trusted that Reid will let someone in when he can't stand the isolation anymore. He just wasn't prepared for one of those times to be right now.

"Reid, I did have to stay. I had to stay for myself just as much as I had to stay for you, and I don't mean that in a selfish way. It's just...ever since we found out about your mom and how your dad left, I've kind of felt responsible for you. I know it makes you feel like a child, but there is nothing childish about needing someone to just...be there. I know you haven't processed all of this yet, and that's okay. Take your time. But when you do, and when you're ready to talk, I'll be here."

"Thanks, Morgan."

Morgan nods in acknowledgement, feeling a sense of lightness after letting out some of his heavier emotions. Like Reid, Morgan isn't one to talk. He shows that he cares in other ways, like promising to put a guy's head on a stick when they kidnap your best friend. Actions do speak louder than words, but sometimes, those words still need to be spoken.

"Can I have your fortune cookie now?"

"Hmm…" Morgan pretends to think it over, earning a smack on the arm from Reid. "Only if you promise not to snore tonight."

"Deal."

Morgan smiles, digging around in the plastic bag and pulling out two fortune cookies. Reid opens the first one quickly, pulling out the little slip of paper and popping it into his mouth without bothering to read the fortune.

"What's it say?" he asks with a mouthful of the treat, when Morgan picks it up off his lap and squints at the tiny words. As his eyes trail over the piece of paper, the smile on Morgan's face falls like a comet falling from the night sky.

"Morgan?"

"Reid, spit it out. Now."