From writer's block to . . . a new fandom. 'that crazy or what? First CM story, so please to forgive mistakes in characterization or whatevah. Oh, the Elle & Morgan in the subject line is not really a pairing, you know? I think I will be going for the Morgan/Garcia team. If I venture into CM fanfiction world more, that is.
WARNING! This story contains mature subjects (non-con, although dealt with not-very-explicitly), so it's rated "M" for a reason. If you are under 18, PLEASE HIT THE "BACK" BUTTON.
You may not like it anyway. I'm mean to Morgan, because I like him. I'm twisted like that.
Summary: It was supposed to be about Derek Morgan shortly after "Profiler Profiled" but me being me, the story became about Elle. Still, it's hurt!Morgan at heart.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
It's been four weeks since she left.
They didn't forget immediately, didn't treat her like she was never a part of the team, she has to give them that. Morgan called, JJ dropped by two or three times. Reid was a frequent guest the first week but she kept turning him down so he gave up. Who wouldn't, right? Hotch called once. So did Gideon. And Garcia. Really, could she expect otherwise? They've kept in touch, it was all they could do. She isn't bitter. Not at all. She understands they have their job that takes up ninety percent of their time, even asleep. She used to have that too.
Now she has nothing.
Elle pours herself another glass of whiskey. The smooth liquid burns her throat, makes her feel. She downs it and waits for the familiar dizziness and numbness. Sits in the armchair too detached to turn the lights on when the darkness falls behind her windows. She dawns another shot. If she keeps drinking at this rate, she'll soon run out of money and then she'll have to resort to begging. She started another job three days ago, telemarketing, and quit today. She's a looser.
A knock on the door startles her. Someone's been knocking for a while, she thinks through the alcohol-induced fog, too soft, too shy for her to hear, and now he bangs, once, louder. Before Elle scrambles to the door, she can hear steps, heavy boots, slowly walking away. She considers keeping up the deception that she's not home, because who could it be? A door-to-door hawker? But part of her longs for company. A few words with another human being. Maybe.
When she opens the door, he's at the stairs already, but backtracks. Morgan.
"Elle." His voice is as quiet as his knocking was. Like he was afraid to disturb her.
"What do you want?" she asks non-friendly, but opens the door wide, lets him in, wants him in.
He does come in, slowly, hesitantly, stops in the doorway to the living room.
"Just . . . thought I'd . . ." murmurs.
"See how I'm doing?" Elle mocks, gazing at the half-emptied bottle on the table, another empty one in the corner of the room, Chinese food boxes on the kitchenette counter, blouses and skirts thrown across the chairs and the couch. At least she still had a reason to have a shower this morning. Tomorrow . . .
"Really, I don't know why I'm here," Morgan breaths out. He seems kind of . . . broken but Elle is too focused on her own misery to allow herself to really see that.
"You wanna drink?" she pours the amber liquid before he answers and hands him a glass, takes a swing from the bottle herself. "Go ahead. I could use some company."
She half-expects him to refuse, place the glass on the table -- she can almost see the gesture in her mind's eye, firm, resolved, so Morgan -- but he doesn't. He downs it in one gulp and then places the glass on the table. Almost timidly. Exhales.
"Tough case?" she guesses. She'd seen him like this. Well, not quite like this, but almost like this.
"You don't even know." He doesn't raise his voice above a barely audible whisper. He doesn't look at her at all.
Elle pours another glass and watches him. His stubble that always made her itch to brush it. His perfectly shaped lips. She wishes he would smile, just once, just for a second. He has a lovely smile. He doesn't smile now, he looks . . . Well, words "vulnerable" and "Morgan" in one sentence somehow do not compute.
The glass is cold to the touch when she lifts it off the table.
"No," he mutters, but he's not convincing. Elle nudges his hand and he takes it, gazes into the amber depths. She clinks the bottle against the glass and cracks a smile when his black eyes meet hers. Then she quickly takes a swing because she can't look at them, at the lack of expression in his pupils. When he smiles, his eyes smile; when he's angry his eyes burn; when an extremely tough case makes them all want to puke and scratch their eyes out, his eyes are the saddest thing. Now -- they're empty.
Elle doesn't ask what the job was. It's not her problem anymore, she doesn't care.
Instead she whispers, "I know what you want."
She's wanted this for quite some time now. Not at first, no. At first Morgan annoyed her with his attitude and bravado. An alpha male -- she doesn't like the type. Then however, she learned to like him, they became friends, they had each others' backs, even in those last weeks she was at the BAU, Morgan supported her the most. When they were working together though, there was no thinking about that.
Now they can.
She inches closer and places her lips on his.
"No!" He backs away, almost frightened.
"Yes," she whispers seductively. She knows she's drunk out of her wits but -- she encourages herself -- so is he. Well, perhaps not as much as she but he's dawned that second shot. "Yes." She kisses him again.
"No, Elle. This is not . . ."
"Shut up. You know you want this." God, she hopes she's right, because she'd hate to make a fool of herself. In her mind's eye she can see, like she did before with the glass, Morgan's hands grabbing hers, him pushing her away, making her see reason, making her see the error of her ways and how far she's fallen and that if she doesn't pick herself up right fucking NOW! she's on the way to total degradation. She can hear him scolding her. She knows she deserves it.
In an absolutely desperate manner she tears her blouse open, buttons flying and exposes her breasts. Forces his hand to touch her skin.
"Nnngghh," Morgan breaths out against her hungry lips but he doesn't try to wriggle from her grasp. He moves backward, blindly and Elle sees her chance. She steers him to the couch. He falls. It almost sobers him, he almost escapes but she crawls on top of him and straddles his legs. His eyes bore into hers now, and Elle will swear later she saw desire there. Burning desire. She unbuttons his fly and there she sees it, the proof that he wants it just as much as she does, no matter how many times he'll say "no".
She takes him in and his body arches. She rides him like a mustang, like a wild beast and sex with him is just like she imagined, crazy, intense. Her skin is on fire and her brain is about to explode and when he comes, she comes too and then she falls on him like a puppet left without a master, all energy drained, exhausted but happy. With her ear against his chest she can hear his heart hammering, alive.
He's the first to move, he pushes her up and slides from under her, his face turned away awkwardly.
What is it? It's not how Morgan acts around women, is it? He's confident! He takes what he wants, he doesn't feel remorse, or whatever it is he's feeling.
He stands up shakily, zips up.
"What is it?" Didn't he like it? She liked it! "What's wrong?"
He walks around her, his face still turned so she can't really see his expression and she can't understand. Why does he act like this? Okay, so perhaps he didn't want to have sex with her, especially given her past that they all now know about. It's great that he's considerate like this, but . . .
"It's okay," she tries to convince his retreating back. "I wanted this."
"Yeah, I know." He half turns to her. Then he adds in a way that forces her to make up words, because they are too quiet but his lips move, they most certainly move in something that she interprets like, "Well, I didn't."
"You d--" She can't believe.
"I gotta go."
"Well you should have said 'no'!"
She screams this and it's like she slapped him. Morgan, the exuberant, boisterous, hot-stuff, self-confident Morgan crumbles in on himself, like she hit him.
"I did," he squeals and looks at her and she sees that he's crying, tears are streaking down his face, his sexy stubble, his lips are trembling. And his eyes, oh God! his eyes are the eyes of a little boy whose beloved dog just died or who was . . .
"Derek . . ."
She can't even think.
He leaves without another word and Elle is left with a dawning realization that she has just raped Derek Morgan.