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It’s an early morning, and as soon as Morgan sees Reid, he knows something is wrong. Instead of examining a file or reading a book at a bewilderingly fast pace, he’s slouched, staring down at his mug of coffee and a single sheet of paper. Nosy as ever, he makes an effort to peek behind his shoulder and see what has Reid looking so studious.
“Natural Field Readiness Exam?” He reads off the heading.
“It’s a certification,” The other explains, eyes still on the mug. “Evals are soon…I could get a raise for having it, since it would deem me more useful in the field.”
Morgan gently removes the page from his desk, careful not to touch him. His eyes scan over the headline and bullet points of requirements. “Reid,” he starts, “Hotch had me sign up for the certification waitlist on day one.” He says, a hint of confusion in his voice.
“He tried.” Reid begins, his eyes still downcast. He takes a calculated pause, the same way he does when he’s playing chess. “I couldn’t do it then.”
“Injured?” Morgan asks.
“No.” He replies quietly, before looking around to scan the surrounding desks. “I just can’t.”
Morgan thoughtfully looks at him, then at the bullet points again. He knows that Reid can run, even if he’d rather not. He’s seen an adrenaline-filled Reid literally lift victims and carry them to ambulances, so he doubts that he’s worried about the strength requirement. Then, his eyes fall to the next bullet point, the swim test. To pass, it said, you must be able to retrieve a weight from the bottom of a swimming pool, tread water for 3 minutes with only your legs, and complete several laps in a specified time. He lays the paper on Reid’s desk, on top of a copy of some classic novel.
“It’s the swimming.” He suggests in a half-question, half-statement.
“Please don’t tell.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Reid fiddles with the end of his sleeve. “I think they have lessons at the YMCA”, he says absently, before turning to look at Morgan. He would swear that for a second, panic crossed over his friend's face. As his eyes dilate and brows furrow momentarily, he wonders if the mere thought of the Genius Dr. Spencer Reid trying something athletic would alarm him. But again, Morgan’s expression wasn’t one of confusion, rather concern or fear.
“You don’t need to do that.” He spits out, and his tone makes Reid snap out of his state of solemn consideration.
“Yeah, I mean,” He swallows. “I don’t need to do it. But I could always use more money to help out my mom. Also, all these books aren’t free.”
Morgan shifts on his feet and tugs at the bottom hem of his shirt, an act any profiler would recognize as an attempt to regain composure.
“But lessons from some random person…come on, pretty boy.” He cracks a smile, “You don’t trust me enough to coach you?” He tries to say it like it’s any other normal jest, but there’s something underlying that Reid senses. His voice shakes temporarily; it almost seems like desperation.
“I just don’t want you to think I can’t do this job because I’m weak.”
“You aren’t.” He quickly retorts.
“57% of men can swim unassisted.”
“Everyone who knows how to swim had to learn from someone; don’t beat yourself up about it. Do you want me to teach you?”
Reid returns with another pause before nodding. They meet up at an indoor pool the next week. Forever the people pleaser, Reid was committed to following his every instruction. Morgan made it clear he wanted nothing in return for this gesture. Protecting Spencer from a perceived danger was reward enough. While the success of passing the test ended up pleasing to both, the troubles of Reid’s first swimming experience would not soon be forgotten…
"Kid, you can literally smell the bleach in the pool. Means it's clean."
"Actually, that's a common misconception.” Reid begins. “Smelling chlorine doesn't imply that the water is clean, rather that it's dirty. What you're smelling is the byproduct of the chlorine doing its job, meaning that this pool would need additional chlorine to be clean."
Morgan sighs, because of course Reid would say that, and of course he's right.
"I swam all sorts of places in Chicago, me and every kid I knew came out just fine."
"Survivorship bias," Reid mutters, looking down at the water with a half smile. He sits at the edge and leans against the rail to the steps, legs dangling in the pool.
"You're tall enough to stand, Reid. Nothing's going to happen to you from just standing in the water."
He sighs and slowly walks down the steps into the pool, tugging down the hem of his shirt as he does. He keeps his hands at his sides and looks to his friend.
“Now what?”
“The shirt’s gonna make it harder to swim, especially if it does the thing where you get ai-”
“I know. It creates drag, and it’s going to be less efficient.”
“So…”
“So then I’ll be even better at swimming when I take it off,” He defensively shoots back.
Morgan resolves not to fight him on it; whatever would keep him in the water would have to work. He shows him how to float, his body relaxed on the surface of the water. Reid watches with analytical focus, the same stare usually reserved for solving the most difficult puzzles. When it’s his turn, he lies back stiffly and sinks almost immediately.
“You can’t fight it. May I?” Morgan says, and when Reid nods, he attempts to steady him with a careful hand. His touch is always gentle but supportive, so careful. “The water wants to hold you up, you just gotta let it.”
“That’s not how it actually-”
“Reid.” His hand stays on his shoulder blades. “Trust me. Trust the water.”
Reid tries over and over. Each time water covers his ears, the sensation makes him jolt upwards. Finally, he manages about 7 seconds before giving in to the panic, gasping.
“Good,” Morgan says genuinely. “That’s good, man.”
Over the next few weeks, they develop a routine. Morgan learns that Spencer does way better when given very specific instructions, rather than vague ones like “Trust the water.” He learns to keep his voice at a consistent volume even when the pool gets more crowded and louder.
Reid learns that Morgan is not going to let him drown. The shirt stays on for a few sessions before he wordlessly takes it off one day, folding it with care on the pool deck. Morgan doesn’t comment, does his best not to look for too long, and helps him work on breath control.
The routine is nice for Spencer. It feels good to have the pool all to themselves in early mornings when they aren’t on cases. Before the pool gets too overwhelming, he finds it a calming place to be. Morgan is patient to a surprising degree. He never pushes Reid too hard and remembers to give him encouragement for each milestone.
Morgan notices things he never would’ve from work. Reid sits on the steps of the pool for exactly two minutes before he can fully get in, because he has to adjust to the temperature. He counts his strokes under his breath. He really hates the way wet pool noodles feel.
The hardest part for him is underwater retrieval. Reid can swim an impressive number of laps now, tread water for five minutes while reciting statistics about aquatic accidents, but he just cannot dive to the bottom of the deep end.
“My mom,” he pants with exasperation one morning, clinging to the ladder on the side of the pool after another failed round. Water drips from his overgrown hair to his shoulders. His fingers trace through the grout between shiny tiles repetitively. “She couldn’t always get me places, and swimming lessons were expensive, costing money we didn’t have. Neighborhood pools were…loud and crowded. I didn’t do well with that when I was younger…I still could do better.”
Morgan listens beside him, waiting to see if his friend has more to say. “You don’t need to do this, you know. If it’s bringing up these feelings- the certificate isn’t worth all of that.”
“I want to.” Reid’s voice is firm. He doesn’t make eye contact with Morgan; he stares at the ripples beneath him and continues tracing his fingers over the tile. “I don’t want to be afraid anymore, I want to be able to swim.”
Morgan nods slowly, understanding that this goes deeper than a certificate. “Okay, we’ll take care of it then.”
The next time, Reid makes it to the bottom and back.
The test is scheduled for Wednesday, while Morgan is off on a consult in Jacksonville. Reid goes to the facility alone, paperwork in a folder in his bag next to two books he knows he won’t have time to read. The weight of the bag is comforting.
He checks his phone in the locker room, grateful for the distraction from being in an unfamiliar space out of routine.
“you got this pretty boy”
“and if you fail we can just keep practicing”
“no pressure”
“but you wont fail”
Reid smiles at the series of messages and tucks the phone into his locker. He checks the lock a few times, stalling, then makes himself walk away.
He doesn’t fail.
The laps are easy; his long limbs give him an advantage. He cuts through the water with the efficiency Morgan promised he’d have once he quit overthinking his every move. The treading is meditative, repetitive, just his style. Instead of counting down the time in his head while he treads water, he thinks about what he’s going to say to Derek the next time he sees him.
It was nice to have an excuse to see him so often. He might miss that.
The instructor interrupts his thoughts to tell him all he has to do now is dive for a weight. He doesn’t think about the crowded neighborhood pools, or his mom, or the childhood he missed out on. Instead, he thinks about Morgan’s steady hands and reaches the bottom without a struggle.
The instructor nods with approval. “Good work, Agent Reid.”
When he comes back to the office on Thursday, there’s a small box on his desk.
Inside is a little shark keychain, sleek and silver. It’s small enough to be a minimal detail on his bag, but still detailed enough to see the tiny gills and tail. There’s a sticky note with Morgan’s handwriting on it: For your bag. The guy at the airport told me sharks are apex predators; no one messes with them. Proud of you.
Reid rubs his thumb over the smooth, cool metal. It’s perfect, of course it is. He clips it to the strap of his bag immediately, where it catches the light and makes him smile. He runs his finger over it three times.
Morgan comes in later, and Reid is sitting at his desk pretending to read. He’s been on the same page for 3 minutes, just waiting for someone to come in so he can show off his new keychain. When he hears Morgan’s footsteps-he’d know those steps anywhere- his heart does something new in his chest.
“So?” Morgan asks, setting a cup of coffee on his own desk. There’s cautious eagerness in his voice.
“91st percentile”, Reid says, eyes on his book still. “The instructor said my form could use work, but my time was exceptional.” He finally looks up, excited to see how proud he’s made Derek.
The grin on Morgan’s face is blinding. He’d do anything to see that smile more often. “Of course it was.” He crosses over and clasps his shoulder, but this time his hand lingers, warm and solid. “I knew you could do it.”
Reid stands, and suddenly they’re very close. He can see the depth of Morgan’s eyes and smell his cologne mixed with coffee, grounding and familiar scents at this point. “Thank you,” he says quietly, pointing to the keychain on his bag, then running his finger over it thrice. “For-” He gestures vaguely, but they both know it’s not just for the keychain or the lessons.
“Anytime, pretty boy.” His voice is rougher than usual, heavier with something neither of them has the words for.
They both stand there a little too long, close enough for Reid to feel the warmth coming off Morgan’s body. Then Garcia shouts across the open office calling for Morgan, and their moment ceases.
Morgan steps back, but his eyes stay on Reid’s. “Dinner?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’d- that’d be nice.”
Morgan nods and heads to Garcia’s cave, but he glances back. Reid catches one of the glances and doesn’t look away, just watching until Morgan grins and shakes his head like he just heard something he can't believe.
Reid goes back to his reading, but it’s hopeless. His mind is in the pool with Morgan and those hands. He’s stuck on the way Morgan looks at him like he’s something precious. When he puts his book away, the shark swings from the strap, and he reaches to touch it, the metal's texture grounding him. Three swipes.
He pulls his phone from the bag.
Thank you for the shark. I think it is an imitation of a Great White, which are in fact apex predators. No one messes with them.
A reply comes immediately.
damn right
see you @ 7?
Reid stares at the message. It means nothing, but there are a thousand things he could say to that question. He could write a thesis on trust and fear; he could write an ode to Morgan’s touch on his back. He could collect data on how Morgan adapted to his habits without questioning them, which made him feel like he wasn’t broken for once.
7 is good.
That would have to work for now, he supposes.
When Morgan goes back to his desk, their eyes meet again. Neither of them look away. Reid feels something in his chest, like coming out of the deep end after being underwater. It’s like a nice deep breath.