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Derek hasn’t eaten.
His morning had been a scramble: his alarm hadn’t gone off but he’d woken up naturally with, as he found out, just enough time to get to the office. Breakfast had fallen by the wayside because by the time he was hungry, they were lifting off and he’d just have a good lunch.
Through no fault of their own, they hadn’t had a lunch break; another body was found and they’d gone out to the field and rewritten the profile and in the middle of the action he didn’t feel hungry, let alone mention it. Such is the job some days.
That’s not a problem insomuch as he’s hungry and a tad irritable.
The unsub’s shoes disappear over a fence and Derek jumps it after him, hot on his heels. It isn’t often one of them can maintain a decent lead when they run but this man is giving it his best try.
Derek scales another fence and follows the rattling as the man barges through a tight alley, jostling dumpers and trash cans in his hurry. He’s gaining on him but his breath is coming in fast, shallow gasps that it really shouldn’t be. Not with this little exertion.
As the unsub darts to the side, the incoming car blares its horn. It sounds strangely underwater and his ears are droning, a faint rumble. Derek pushes through the burning in his chest and sprints at him.
He tackles the man to the ground as Hotch rounds the corner in front of them, spots dancing in his vision. The man struggles beneath him.
Everything darkens and the strange underwater feeling envelopes his entire body.
“Think I’m gonna sit down a minute,” Derek slurs. His grip goes weak as he slumps to the side, ears ringing, view blotted out. A deep nausea burrows into his stomach.
(In retrospect, it did sound more like ‘thnn’gsi’dnamnn’)
Shrugging off Derek’s arms, the unsub’s bid for freedom lasts the half second it takes Hotch to pin him to the ground. He doesn’t go down without a fight, struggling and flailing limbs.
“Morgan?” Hotch calls. Slumped over by the wall, he doesn’t look injured, just semi-conscious. The unsub jerks his head back and Hotch presses him harder to the ground, snapping the handcuffs around his wrists. “Are you hurt?”
“You didn’t have to be so fuckin’ rough,” the unsub complains. A little rich considering he’d beaten his victims to death.
“Not you,” Hotch spits. “Morgan!”
His head awfully fuzzy, Derek attempts to sit up. His tongue is just as uncooperative as the rest of him. “’M okay. What… what…”
“You passed out.”
Derek blinks and eases upright, swallowing back nausea. Though he’s dizzy the spots have disappeared and he can hear, albeit through the ringing. “I sat down… wasn’t out.”
“Yeah, you were,” the unsub crows.
Hotch jerks the man to his feet. “Oh, shut up.”
Derek eases to his feet. “I didn’t eat, and the running—I’ll grab something when we get back.”
“You haven’t eaten since when?”
“Early… yesterday night,” Derek says.
Hotch sighs. “I have less trouble getting my five year old to eat his vegetables than I do with all of you combined. And you're supposed to be the easiest."
The unsub snickers.