Drabbly things.
Jan. 22nd, 2011 11:00 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
poeticpathetic.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
criminalxmindsTitle: Blank
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: a beautiful evening, spoiled
Unstructured time is valued, but also feared, in fact, there's a name for it: dimanchophobia, loosely translated to a fear of Sundays, of time sliding into some post-apocolyptic nothingness. Reid's time is invariably structured, down to the letter, wavering only when there's a sudden jolt out of his routine into a different sort of reality. And though the locations and possibilities are numerous, though the horrific things always seem to become more and more horrific each time he encounters them in photos, in retellings, in interviews, face to face, the blood on his shoes--
"You're thinking."
"What?"
"Stop thinking."
"Oh."
JJ's hand is sliding up along the side of his neck, anchoring him because it is cold, because despite the dissolution of a not-quite marriage, she still hasn't gotten up the gumption to remove her engagement and wedding rings. The metal taps against his face. He has tonight and tomorrow off, completely free, nothing on the roster. And now that JJ has this new job, her time is unflinching. She's never running anywhere. There are no reasons to get out of bed in the middle of the night, though they haven't gotten there yet, and though they've been doing this for exactly three months, one week, seven days and fourteen hours, intermittently of course, but that's the exact span of time from the moment she first kissed him -- perhaps out of sadness and loneliness and a feeling of frustration, a lack of control. Her job, her marriage, her everything, suddenly yanked out from under her, and Reid, well. He's steady. He's constant. He feels too much, he thinks too much, he can understand everything and nothing all at once. There's a word for what he is, isn't there? Don't they call it a rebound?
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Thinking."
"It's an impossible request, the brain is always processing some bit of information, if I stopped thinking, I'd stop--"
"Spence."
He quiets when her mouth is over his, his hands slinking up against her hips -- shock, without thinking -- and he leans back against the couch as she edges forward, pushing up against him, the fold of her shirt creasing, rattling stiff and sharp, crisp linen, well-tailored, she looks the same but different. She looks different but herself, she looks unhappy, she looks...
"God damn it."
"Huh?"
"Your phone."
"What?"
"Your phone, Spence."
"Oh. Right."
Sure enough the thing is ringing, buzzing, skipping across the coffee table. He hadn't heard it. JJ knows the ring, the hour, knows exactly who is on the other end. Reid exhales, a hard gust of air out of his lungs and he leans forward, reaching for it, because there's no other option, no other reason. This is his life, even if it isn't hers anymore, and it's a curious thing to think that the only way that they could do this, that they even had that first initial thought to do this, was because they didn't share this anymore.
Reid still looks at the horrible things. JJ just thinks about them, dreams about them, wakes up in the middle of the night sweating, breathing, clawing them out of her. In a week, sitting in front of a man in a university professor's office, he'll tell him, They're difficult to look at even when you're used to it and he'll be horrified at how fluidly it comes off his tongue and how true it is.
"You have to go."
"I do."
"I know."
"I have to go."
"I know."
Reid makes the drive, an hour, solid, straight through. When he gets there, he parks. His head on the steering wheel. He exhales. In. Out. Repetitive, biological, simple. In. Out.
For a moment, small, sharp, quick and blissful and white hot, he realizes it's possible at the peak of a terrible disappointment and sadness, to let your mind go completely blank.
Title: PBJ
Characters: Garcia, Morgan, Reid
Rating: PG for grossness
Prompt: write about lunch
"I can't eat this."
"You have to eat something, babygirl."
"No, I mean, six straight hours of staring at horrific images that not even the most horrible of horrific horror directors would use as research for his next stab-happy thriller does not make for a very hungry Garcia."
Morgan looks up at Garcia over where she has set up her lunch. It's simple. A sandwich, an apple, a bag of chips scored from the police station vending machine, and a big Poland Spring water. And poor Garcia, kind hearted soul that she is, is staring at it like it has just done something to mightily offend her.
Across the way, Reid is flipping the pages of a research text at an inhuman speed, half a sandwich in his hand. He takes a bite and flips again.
"Whatcha readin', sweetie?" she asks, hoping to distract herself from the fact that she should be using this free hour of nothingness to down her lunch.
"Several accounts of interviews with detectives who investigated murders involving the slicing of the victim's achilles tendons and then subsequent exsanguinations."
Garcia pales. "What are you EATING?"
Reid doesn't even look up from his book. "A PBJ."
"I'm going to hurl."
Title: Either/Or
Characters: Reid, Nathan Harris
Rating: G
Prompt: too soon to tell
This is, perhaps, a bad idea. No, on second thought, most certainly it's a bad idea, this hour, this locale, this sort of isolation in some shit town outside of the city. Leaning back in the booth, Reid looks up when the door rattles open. It's a fluid motion, all tied together, his back against the seat, the figure moving forward. Nathan Harris isn't tall, but whatever height he has, he's shrunken in with the hunch of his shoulders, the forward jut of his chin, the shuffle of his feet. He makes himself look smaller, more unassuming.
He slides in across from Reid, and in a move that Reid finds strangely calming and reassuring, puts his hands on the table, fingers laced together.
They sit in silence, neither of them accustomed to words, unless those words lead somewhere, interrogating and cloying, or unless those words are factual, solid, weighty. And there is nothing to say after this time. Reid's hair is shorter, Nathan's hair is longer. Their statures are similar. The boy looks like a deer that knows it's caught in the crosshair of a gun.
Reid left his gun in the car.
"You made it."
"To the diner or out of the institution?"
Reid's mouth is dry, he lifts a shoulder.
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: a beautiful evening, spoiled
Unstructured time is valued, but also feared, in fact, there's a name for it: dimanchophobia, loosely translated to a fear of Sundays, of time sliding into some post-apocolyptic nothingness. Reid's time is invariably structured, down to the letter, wavering only when there's a sudden jolt out of his routine into a different sort of reality. And though the locations and possibilities are numerous, though the horrific things always seem to become more and more horrific each time he encounters them in photos, in retellings, in interviews, face to face, the blood on his shoes--
"You're thinking."
"What?"
"Stop thinking."
"Oh."
JJ's hand is sliding up along the side of his neck, anchoring him because it is cold, because despite the dissolution of a not-quite marriage, she still hasn't gotten up the gumption to remove her engagement and wedding rings. The metal taps against his face. He has tonight and tomorrow off, completely free, nothing on the roster. And now that JJ has this new job, her time is unflinching. She's never running anywhere. There are no reasons to get out of bed in the middle of the night, though they haven't gotten there yet, and though they've been doing this for exactly three months, one week, seven days and fourteen hours, intermittently of course, but that's the exact span of time from the moment she first kissed him -- perhaps out of sadness and loneliness and a feeling of frustration, a lack of control. Her job, her marriage, her everything, suddenly yanked out from under her, and Reid, well. He's steady. He's constant. He feels too much, he thinks too much, he can understand everything and nothing all at once. There's a word for what he is, isn't there? Don't they call it a rebound?
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Thinking."
"It's an impossible request, the brain is always processing some bit of information, if I stopped thinking, I'd stop--"
"Spence."
He quiets when her mouth is over his, his hands slinking up against her hips -- shock, without thinking -- and he leans back against the couch as she edges forward, pushing up against him, the fold of her shirt creasing, rattling stiff and sharp, crisp linen, well-tailored, she looks the same but different. She looks different but herself, she looks unhappy, she looks...
"God damn it."
"Huh?"
"Your phone."
"What?"
"Your phone, Spence."
"Oh. Right."
Sure enough the thing is ringing, buzzing, skipping across the coffee table. He hadn't heard it. JJ knows the ring, the hour, knows exactly who is on the other end. Reid exhales, a hard gust of air out of his lungs and he leans forward, reaching for it, because there's no other option, no other reason. This is his life, even if it isn't hers anymore, and it's a curious thing to think that the only way that they could do this, that they even had that first initial thought to do this, was because they didn't share this anymore.
Reid still looks at the horrible things. JJ just thinks about them, dreams about them, wakes up in the middle of the night sweating, breathing, clawing them out of her. In a week, sitting in front of a man in a university professor's office, he'll tell him, They're difficult to look at even when you're used to it and he'll be horrified at how fluidly it comes off his tongue and how true it is.
"You have to go."
"I do."
"I know."
"I have to go."
"I know."
Reid makes the drive, an hour, solid, straight through. When he gets there, he parks. His head on the steering wheel. He exhales. In. Out. Repetitive, biological, simple. In. Out.
For a moment, small, sharp, quick and blissful and white hot, he realizes it's possible at the peak of a terrible disappointment and sadness, to let your mind go completely blank.
Title: PBJ
Characters: Garcia, Morgan, Reid
Rating: PG for grossness
Prompt: write about lunch
"I can't eat this."
"You have to eat something, babygirl."
"No, I mean, six straight hours of staring at horrific images that not even the most horrible of horrific horror directors would use as research for his next stab-happy thriller does not make for a very hungry Garcia."
Morgan looks up at Garcia over where she has set up her lunch. It's simple. A sandwich, an apple, a bag of chips scored from the police station vending machine, and a big Poland Spring water. And poor Garcia, kind hearted soul that she is, is staring at it like it has just done something to mightily offend her.
Across the way, Reid is flipping the pages of a research text at an inhuman speed, half a sandwich in his hand. He takes a bite and flips again.
"Whatcha readin', sweetie?" she asks, hoping to distract herself from the fact that she should be using this free hour of nothingness to down her lunch.
"Several accounts of interviews with detectives who investigated murders involving the slicing of the victim's achilles tendons and then subsequent exsanguinations."
Garcia pales. "What are you EATING?"
Reid doesn't even look up from his book. "A PBJ."
"I'm going to hurl."
Title: Either/Or
Characters: Reid, Nathan Harris
Rating: G
Prompt: too soon to tell
This is, perhaps, a bad idea. No, on second thought, most certainly it's a bad idea, this hour, this locale, this sort of isolation in some shit town outside of the city. Leaning back in the booth, Reid looks up when the door rattles open. It's a fluid motion, all tied together, his back against the seat, the figure moving forward. Nathan Harris isn't tall, but whatever height he has, he's shrunken in with the hunch of his shoulders, the forward jut of his chin, the shuffle of his feet. He makes himself look smaller, more unassuming.
He slides in across from Reid, and in a move that Reid finds strangely calming and reassuring, puts his hands on the table, fingers laced together.
They sit in silence, neither of them accustomed to words, unless those words lead somewhere, interrogating and cloying, or unless those words are factual, solid, weighty. And there is nothing to say after this time. Reid's hair is shorter, Nathan's hair is longer. Their statures are similar. The boy looks like a deer that knows it's caught in the crosshair of a gun.
Reid left his gun in the car.
"You made it."
"To the diner or out of the institution?"
Reid's mouth is dry, he lifts a shoulder.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: Jan. 26th, 2011 09:00 pm (UTC)Your Reid/JJ is just achy and lovely and everything that they should be... the frustration and sadness and all of that is just palpable. LOVE!
And I LOL'd at PBJ. The characterization is so perfect! Oh, Reid. Oh, Garcia.
And I can never resist a good Reid/Harris. ♥ "To the diner or out of the institution?" Perfect.
♥ ♥