Dying A Little With the Wings

Author: Regency
Title: Dying A Little With the Wings
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG for mature themes
Pairing: Reid/Morgan
Word count: ~719
Warning: non-graphic reference to serious injury.
Summary: Steps to a plane crash, as lived by Spencer Reid and Derek Morgan
Author’s Notes: Written for the

comment_fic prompt, Criminal Minds, Reid/Morgan, Plane crash. All French phrases are totally borrowed from the internet.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Criminal Minds. They are the property of their respective producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~

They hit the water so hard, there's no getting up. Morgan thinks he's cracked his pelvis; Reid knows he's hurt way worse, but he keeps up the running commentary anyway.

Famous plane crashes and their aftermaths--

"Did you know survivor's guilt is one of the lesser causes of killing sprees? Some who feel they were especially chosen to survive take it upon themselves to eliminate the less worthy. It's been proven in a number of psychological studies."

Jokes, because, why not--

"I know the damsel thing is usually your routine, but feel free to carry me out of here anytime, Pretty Boy."

Keeping up the act, because someone will come, really--

"I thought about teaching myself Finnish, but I didn't think I'd ever use it. French is fairly simple to learn, though."

"Tu parles français?"

"...I'm sure it will be simple to learn once I start studying it. That's what I meant."

Morgan snorts, winces. "Sure, that's you meant."

Huffing oxygen out of the masks and ignoring the floating dead bodies because they aren't Whitelighters--

"I cannot believe you know what a Whitelighter is."

"I'm not entirely pop culture illiterate. I know some things." Reid prods listlessly at a life vest that he has no hope of reaching. This emergency plan was poorly devised.

"You mean some things like TV shows starring some particularly fine ladies."

"I don't know if that says more about me or about you."

Morgan sucks air from his second oxygen mask while Reid doesn't need even the one. They both try not to notice.

"Fair enough."

Second-guessing heroism, because friends shouldn't leave friends to die alone--

"I'll be back, Derek. I promise," Reid says even though there's only a slim chance Morgan can hear him. He lost consciousness fifteen minutes ago, around the time the shouting started from the rear of the plane.

His leg's an anchor on a scuttled ship; he moves across the wreckage anyway. It's not like the Coast Guard's about to save their lives. They're half sunk with nowhere to land.

With his thin arms and long fingers, he pulls a six-year old from under a pile of steel, wire, and cargo. He thinks they might have been transporting a rare animal in that crate. Doesn't matter, it died on impact or soon after. This little boy'll ride it into the hereafter, because heroism doesn't necessarily mean survival.

The damage is serious, in and out--

He spits up blood on his nice sweater vest and his head feels a little light. At least he isn't hungry anymore.

The nice other passengers help him back to his seat, where it used to be. In the intervening hours, it floated away, leaving a hole behind next to Morgan, who's too cold.

Reid lays his head on Derek's lap and recites, from beginning to end, Le Petit Prince in perfect French. It's funny the things he knows that he forgot he knew. Morgan has always had that affect on him.

He feels strong hands that have been weakened in his hair, stroking it away from his ears. Morgan knows The Little Prince as well. Reid thinks his mother will be thrilled; isn't this the kind of love she wants for him?

Daylight comes on a perfect ocean view. The water is choppy but undisturbed by the mechanical angles and ugliness of what man can do and fail to do well--

But the sand flies under a sky full with helicopters and small planes that do passover after pass on an island that's not on any map. A few living souls stare up because, what else can they do? This isn't quite a miracle anymore, but it is a story.

Reid grimaces at the glare from the sun impacting a fleet and a half of stainless steel and glass. He hasn't seen clearly in a while; this doesn't help.

"Did you know that survivor's guilt is one of the lesser causes of killing sprees?" he asks, for wont of something to say, and it could be the heatstroke talking.

"Oui," Morgan replies, "je me souviens." I remember.

He turns his head to look at the man who swam when he shouldn't have to get here, and who, he hopes, will walk again. They should have come sooner.

"I think I understand."