I've been wanting to use these lyrics from one of my favorite 3eb songs for a really long time, even way back when I wrote SVU fics. However, it never seemed to fit anything I was writing, but I realized what if I wrote a one shot-based off of the lyrics? With that idea, I give you the following story from Morgan's POV. Sorry about the verb tenses, though. For some reason, I was having a hard time with that today...This is meant to be set somewhere in the current season, although I'm not entirely sure where...

And I know this sounds like slash, but it's not. Sorry to disappoint anyone, but I see all the characters as friends and won't write them in any team-affiliated romances.

Enjoy! :)

"In the majesty of a motor crash, you skid into my darkness forming sex and death, heartbreak and strife. Well, they give no warning. Always think we'll get more time. Now I'm flying through the air, and it's you who comes to mind. In the red lights and cathedrals, there's a sign. Don't we always wish had more time?"-Third Eye Blind, "My Hit and Run"

As he sat in the hospital bed with its scratchy, white sheets heightened by beeping heart monitors and accompanying electrodes, Derek Morgan ignored the dull throbbing radiating through each one of his limbs. He was lucky, he knew that, but there was something tantalizing about the street that night. The surroundings were draped with rolling gray fog and the ground was speckled with reflecting spots of rain. It had been an open invitation leading to recklessness, and Morgan had driven straight onto the muddled roads. Flying around dark street corners with the roar of the wind in his ears seemed like a good idea after the team's last case. No ghosts would chase him on empty streets underneath burnt-out bulbs.

But the corner bent too quickly. He hadn't seen its perpendicular approach, but he had felt it. The way the bike propelled uncontrollably forward, the burn in his quads when he tried to prevent the inevitable, and the weightlessness that came when he sailed through the night. He had buffered himself for the shock of the graveled pavement, but was surprised when he landed on the grass just a few inches from dashed, white lines.

The rest was a blur set in a singular snapshot of images: the motorists who stopoed, the ambulance, and the sweet release of pain medication. In the hospital room, Morgan recalled the voices of the good samaritans who stopped to help:

"Wow, dude, you took that curve fast!" The voice was young and a face had peered down at him from above, swimming in and out of view. Underneath, the ground swirled in ways that reminded Morgan of his youthful jumps off merry-go-rounds.

"Shut up, Harrison! He's hurt! Go call 911!" There was another young voice, but he seemed able to comprehend the severity of the situation. Morgan wanted to move, but, when he attempted to, there were hands holding him down. The kid was stronger than he expected.

"Don't try and sit up. Don't move." What's your name?"

"Mor-Derek. Derek Morgan." The kid's face molded into one, and Morgan half-expected the eyes to belong to Spencer. They were the same color, but the owner was shorter, had lighter hair, and was younger. Much younger-maybe late teens.

"I'm Joe. It's your lucky day." The kid smiled. "I want to be an EMT." Morgan tried to speak, but chose to grunt instead of telling Joe that wanting to do something was very different from actually doing it.

"Who's your friend?" He asked Joe, closing his eyes as his ribs stabbed into his muscles. They were broken for sure. By now, he had enough injuries to know the difference between bruised and broken ribs.

"Harrison. We were going to meet some girls. My dad doesn't know we took the car..." Joe bowed his head like Reid would, and Morgan wanted to laugh, but coughed instead. The back of his throat burned.

"Well," he smiled but was pretty sure it looked more like a grimace. "You'll have a hell of a story to tell them." In the distant, the familiar, comforting wail of an ambulance shattered the early morning. Then, as if appearing from the woods a few feet away, the EMTs were around him, asking rapid-fire questions over the hands that Morgan knew were assessing his vitals.

"Agent Morgan?" One asked in the clipped, controlled voice Morgan was sure he has used at crime scenes. It's meant to bring a snap of attention, but Morgan felt his eyelids drooping downward like some unknown hand would pull curtains down to block intruding morning light. Before everything went black, Morgan swore he heard Joe say "Holy shit, he's an FBI agent!"

When he found his way back into reality, Moran comprehended that someone had been notified. They all have their primary contacts, and his is Garcia, as he is hers. Once, in the beginning before time changed everything, Reid used Gideon, but that changed to Hotch, who had JJ until he didn't. When she left, Hotch's contact shifted to Rossi. Dave returned the favor by using Hotch. After the case in Colorado, Prentiss had changed hers from her mother to Reid, who had been baffled by the surprise, but accepting all the same.

But Morgan, amidst his delusion, remembered Garcia's cold. He realized that she's probably knocked herself into a dreamless, cough-less oblivion with some over-the-counter potent liquid. What he can't remember, is who was the next contact on his sheet? Who had he deemed appropriate to know all of his medical information or, God forbid, to make life-altering decisions if the situation arose? Morgan was certain it was Hotch, but, when the tall, lanky figure appeared by his bedside with disheveled hair, wide glasses frames, and wrinkled clothing, Morgan can't recall how, when, and why he chose Reid..

"Hey, Morgan." Reid reaches backwards, forearms stretching to some unforeseen part of the room, grabbing an uncomfortable chair that will, no doubt, make him shift his bony ass against its seat in a futile effort to reach some semblance of ease.

"Reid?" Morgan's throat is dry and it takes all the strength he has to hoist himself upwards. He pretends not to notice how Reid jumps to action, situating his pillows to an upright position that will support his aching back muscles.

"They couldn't get a hold of Garcia, so the doctors called me." Reid smiles, offering this explanation like he's done something terribly wrong and it's an apology.

"She has a nasty cold. I wouldn't be surprised if she drank a bottle of NyQuil."

"I see you haven't suffered any brain damage." This time, Reid does joke, and Morgan smiles when his friend presses a straw to his lips. The water is brilliantly cold and he gulps so forcefully that tears sting at his eyes. When the liquid sloshes against the lining of his stomach, Morgan leans back on the pillows, watching as Reid returns the plastic cup and straw to the nightstand.

They're silent until Reid finally breaks.

"I didn't know I was your second choice." His tone is light, but, even through the various drugs circulating through his bloodstream and zenith of pain culminating inside of his muscles and limbs, Morgan can see Reid's eyes are swirling with a mixture of fear and relief.

"Me and Prentiss, pretty boy." He grins when he uses one of Reid's nickname. "You better hope the both of us aren't injured at the same time."

"If you weren't in a hospital bed right now, Morgan, I swear to God I'd kick your ass." Morgan laughs so suddenly that his ribs feel like they're breaking. In his coughing fit, he doesn't realize it's Reid's hands holding him forward, but, when it subsides and he leans back, he realizes that his ribs are already broken and he's glad he chose Reid.

"Sorry, I don't come equipped with colorful clothing like Garcia would have. You kind of caught me off guard..." Morgan surveys the baggy cotton pajama pants, the hooded FBI sweatshirt, and the rumbled hair before speaking.

"You don't wear your glasses anymore. How come?" Reid shrugs, looking at the ceiling as if the answers to the universe are built into each white bump.

"I look older without them." Morgan smiles.

"You're almost 30 now..."

"Rub it in, Morgan." Reid jokes, leaning back into the hard chair. For a moment, the only sound that fills the room is the rhythmic tone of the heart monitor. Morgan wonders when and how life came down to this simplistic notion of breathing, syncopated beats, and blood flowing through his veins. For a moment, he studies how Reid's gaze lands on various spots in the room: the tubes and IVS inserted into his arms, the various machines that Morgan is sure Reid knows the functionality of, and the window with its parking lot view stationed a few feet away.

"These two teenagers stopped to help me tonight, Reid.' Morgan chuckles, but it turns into a dry cough. "You-"

"What the fuck where you doing driving that fast on wet roads at two in the fucking morning, Morgan!" Derek blinks at the hostile interruption with a slow open and close. The pain medicine has made him delusional, but, when he meets Reid's furious features, he can tell that the anger is real and it's aimed directly at him.

"It was a nice night for a ride, Reid." Spencer's stare intensifies in a way the, oddly, reminds Morgan of Hotch. He expected Prentiss to have the death-stare down to an art form before Reid, but the kid never stops surprising him, even after all the years they've spent together.

"Relax, Reid. It was an accident."

"I know!" Reid throws himself forwards, shaking hands resting on the thin, metal side railing on the hospital bed. Morgan watches his long fingertips loop around the bar like some warped piano player, reaching for the highest, most unattainable chord to complete the discordant symphony.

"I'm okay, Reid. Just some pulled muscles, a few broken ribs, and a mild concussion. I've had worse."

"Do you know how lucky you are?" Reid whispers this as if this knowledge may somehow tilt the situation over a dangerous cliff. Spencer drops his gaze to the blindingly white linoleum squares on the floor. On second thought, Morgan thinks, Maybe they should have kept trying to call Garcia. She'd be a blubbering mess, but not this angry...

Reid's breathing is ragged, his eyes fiery, and his grip on the bed railing is so tight his knuckles are white decorated with inner edges of purple.

"Reid, it's okay, man. I'm okay." It's an odd thing to be sitting in a hospital bed, comforting a visitor, but Morgan sees that Reid is unfolding piece by piece. If anything, Morgan understands that he cannot be responsible for his teammate's self-implosion.

"Why?" Reid struggles with the right words, sagging into his skin as if some invisible weight has been dropped onto his shoulders. For a moment, Morgan's thinks of Atlas, the mythological bearer of the world. He wonders if Reid's world had shifted with one phone call.

"Why what, Reid?"

"Why were you out so late?" Reid's voice is so soft Morgan takes a moment to turn them over in his mind before answering.

"I couldn't sleep, alright, kid?" He speaks softly too, breathing the heaviness outwards. When he closes his eyes, he can smell the wet grass, the dirt shoved into his nostrils, and the faint sounds of the crickets in the nearby wood-line.

"You were driving really fast, Morgan. I read the police report." His eyes shoot open.

"How'd you get a hold of that so soon?"

"Morgan," Reid uses the tone he reserves for the rare instances when he wants everyone to know he is, actually, by many degrees, smarter than everyone in the room. "We have verifiable FBI ID's. Sometimes you have to work the system." Morgan can't help the chuckle and simultaneous groan of pain that leave his lips.

"I was worried..." Reid reveals, pushing himself away from the bed so Morgan can't get a good, solid look at his expression. He wants to sigh, but it feels as though that would take too much energy. His body feels laden from the crash, the drugs, and the feelings he cannot speak of but recognizes all the same.

"I couldn't sleep...I kept seeing those kids, Reid." His voice is wobbling, his eyes closed, but he can practically see Reid's head tilt, attentive gaze, and sympathetic crinkle of skin.

"It was a bad case..." Reid agrees, matching his tone.

"And it wasn't like I had a place to go or anything, but a ride seemed like a good idea...It's helped before." What Morgan doesn't say is how the road taunted him. How it reached out, daring the speedometer's needle to fast numbers, pushing further and further away from self control. He's never told any teammate about his late-night motorcycle rides that he takes after difficult cases that leave him blindsided by overwhelming feelings and, worse, distant, but surfacing, memories.

"Dark can find you, Morgan. Anywhere you go, it can and will find you." Reid doesn't have to say it, but there's an insinuated layer of understanding etched between his sentences. Morgan nods, swallowing past the dry ball lodged in the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry, kid. I should have called someone if I couldn't sleep. It was a stupid decision." Reid sighs, and Morgan chooses this time to open his eyes, almost rocketing upwards in surprise when Reid meets his dark canvas with a watery hazel mixture.

"What happened to those kids, Morgan." Reid chews on his bottom lip, eyes shooting from wall to wall. "It wasn't your fault. None of it. I know you feel that way too, but you can't save everyone."

"Shut up, Reid." Morgan doesn't realize he says this aloud, but Reid's wandering eyes are suddenly composed and staring right into his. Morgan wants to blink, but it occurs to him that Reid's usually the one blinking-not him.

"It's not your fault, Derek." Morgan presses his lips together so hard he feels the cracked edges fuse together.

"Reid-"

"It's never been your fault. Nothing. Not once. Not ever." Morgan wants to reach out, but his anger is weaker than his fear. He's chocking on air. There's not enough oxygen in the room. There's never enough of anything, whether it's fast motorcycles, beautiful woman, homes to rebuild, or even perverted justice. No amount of flying fists, knocked-down doors, or handcuffed criminals will solve or stop the emptiness Morgan felt as his body careened through the air, unsure if his landing point would, finally, destroy the darkness inside.

Morgan lets the small bit of saline he's harbored for so long path its way down his cheek towards his usually hard, set jawline. Before he knows what's happening, before he can stop this deluge, it's overpowering him. His ribs ache, he gasps for breath, leaning as far forward as he dares to place a head in his palm. Morgan doesn't understand why this release burns, but he can feel energy draining from his body. When Reid grabs his free hand in his, squeezing it with a rare bout of physical contact, Morgan is almost positive this is why Reid is on his list.

And when it's over, Reid helps him back on pillows, which feel suddenly inviting. Spencer hands him a fistful of Kleenex, and Morgan blows his nose so forcefully his sides ache. He takes a long time edging himself into a sleeping position, avoiding Reid's soft, introspective gaze.

"I'll call everyone, Morgan. Why don't you get some rest?" Morgan nods, too tired to instigate further conversation, watching as Reid raises to his full height, pulling a cell phone from the holder on his jutting hip.

"You're okay now." Reid assures. "Get some sleep." Morgan is too weak to protest, his eyelids closing at the suggestion.

On the side of the bed, Reid is still in the plastic chair, his long legs stretched forward, arms crossed across his chest, and neck angled downwards towards his left shoulder. Morgan watches his even breathing before turning his attention back to the machines. During his sleep, someone has tied colorful balloons to the end of his bed, and they sway with slight, unforeseen, movement. Morgan watches, understanding the pull: this way, that way, but never left go. Morgan closes his eyes to sleep once more. When he wakes again, the team is there and Reid is animatedly explaining how each monitoring machine works. Everyone looks relieved when Morgan stirs.

"Hey, pretty boy?" He asks in a hoarse voice.

"Yeah?" For a second, their eyes meet and there is a silent acknowledgment of the night before. They'll never speak of it again, but Morgan knows what happened is safe with Reid. He knows his secrets are well protected.

"How does this one work?" He points to the beeping machine closest to his ears, and Prentiss groans.

"You were asleep when he explained that one," Rossi explains, grinning.

"And all the other ones..." Hotch murmurs.

"Guys," Reid holds out his hands in a fake attempt to silence the team. "Morgan is inquiring about the best machine in the room. I think I should tell him now that he's awake."

"Sorry sweet cheeks," Garcia plants a kiss on Morgan's cheek, and he smells mint. "I need coffee."

"Me too!" Prentiss is already at the door, with Hotch and Rossi on her heels.

"We'll be back soon!" Hotch calls, but his voice is already drowned out by the intercom squawking orders into the bustling hallway. Reid looks at him with a bemused, lope-sided grin plastered on his face.

'You did that on purpose, Morgan." He acknowledges, sinking into the same plastic chair that he slept in a few hours earlier.

"Maybe." Morgan grins. "Don't you want some coffee too?"

"I, well, you wanted to know about the-."

"Oh come on, Reid. I know you're practically twitching right now." Reid laughs, throwing his head momentarily backwards, and moving from the chair with blinding speed. His strides to the door are quick, and Morgan's sure that time has played some joke on him when he senses the bounce of confidence in Spencer's step.

"Hey, Reid?" Morgan calls when the younger man reaches the door. Reid spins on his heels, facing him.

"Yeah, Morgan?" His voice sounds older than Morgan has heard it be before, but the job has made them both spin in circles, blending the years together in some fast-forward concept of diluted time and skewed rays of hope punctuated by mountains of despair.

"Thanks." All Reid does is nod, looking at his shoes before heading out the door. When Morgan closes his eyes, he sees slick pavement. His body is soaring through the air, but, when he lands this time, it's on his feet. Crashes have taught him how to handle solid earth.

And, when he can't, he's glad he has a second person to call.