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➤ we become disguised to ourselves
Feb. 7th, 2018 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doctoralThe first thing Reid remembers thinking when he wakes up from the haze of blood lust is wondering why he wasn't dead.
Technically, he supposes, he is dead by most physiological definitions, but by any philosophical one, he is very much alive. Cogito ergo sum. And he is once again thinking, mind restored from the blurred fixation of hunger. He doesn't remember clearly what he did. He can see that he's in a hospital, in what must be the ward for supernatural creatures-- and he is one, now, he knows; he's a creature to most of the world-- because he's in a room alone, and he's restrained effectively. Even newly turned and with not much blood in him, the average vampire could break most restraints.
He's legitimately surprised no one had killed him while bringing him in. Not his team, he knows better than that, but officers have been known to be overzealous with vampire victims, unwilling to watch another predator be made. Reid isn't sure he wouldn't be better off dead. He wants to be alive, he's glad he is, sincerely, but all of his academic knowledge about vampires does nothing to prepare him for a grotesque false life spent preying on others. He knows that not all vampires commit crimes; some never do. He knows he isn't doomed, per se, that willpower plays a role, that he can learn to manage this. But bags of blood or not, Reid has never in his life felt an impulse toward violence before, and knowing a sudden new capacity has sprung up in him, that he very likely killed the unsub who turned him, in fact, in the craze after he first woke, disturbs him on a deep and innate level. He can't remember whether he did or not. He may have killed someone, vampire or not, and he doesn't know.
He already didn't trust himself completely, between the potential for inherited schizophrenia and his ongoing recovery from addiction. He almost wants to laugh at the idea that he's free from it now, because narcotics don't work on vampires. The pain receptors in their neurons don't respond to it. He never thought he'd replace that addiction with a worse one.
Reid wants to bury his face in his hands, and can't, because of the restraints. He wonders where everyone is, how bad it had been, how bad he'd been, that no one is here sitting with him now. Likely they'd been forbidden to. He's glad. He doesn't want anyone to see him this way. There's an IV hooked up feeding him blood intravenously, likely has been for some time, which explains his cleared mental state. His tongue finds his fangs suddenly and then he can't be anything but preoccupied, like worrying at a loose tooth, except these will never leave.
He won't cry. He just needs to know if he still has his job. He tries to breathe even though he doesn't breathe anymore, to steady himself, and starts coughing instead, which is exactly, of course, when Hotch walks in. Great. Well. At least it's obvious he isn't a ravening monster at the moment (for now).
"Sorry," he wheezes, trying to wipe the water from his eyes on his hospital gown at his shoulder, the most he can move. Conveniently, it lets him hide his face for a moment, too. "Sorry, I, I tried to breathe."
Technically, he supposes, he is dead by most physiological definitions, but by any philosophical one, he is very much alive. Cogito ergo sum. And he is once again thinking, mind restored from the blurred fixation of hunger. He doesn't remember clearly what he did. He can see that he's in a hospital, in what must be the ward for supernatural creatures-- and he is one, now, he knows; he's a creature to most of the world-- because he's in a room alone, and he's restrained effectively. Even newly turned and with not much blood in him, the average vampire could break most restraints.
He's legitimately surprised no one had killed him while bringing him in. Not his team, he knows better than that, but officers have been known to be overzealous with vampire victims, unwilling to watch another predator be made. Reid isn't sure he wouldn't be better off dead. He wants to be alive, he's glad he is, sincerely, but all of his academic knowledge about vampires does nothing to prepare him for a grotesque false life spent preying on others. He knows that not all vampires commit crimes; some never do. He knows he isn't doomed, per se, that willpower plays a role, that he can learn to manage this. But bags of blood or not, Reid has never in his life felt an impulse toward violence before, and knowing a sudden new capacity has sprung up in him, that he very likely killed the unsub who turned him, in fact, in the craze after he first woke, disturbs him on a deep and innate level. He can't remember whether he did or not. He may have killed someone, vampire or not, and he doesn't know.
He already didn't trust himself completely, between the potential for inherited schizophrenia and his ongoing recovery from addiction. He almost wants to laugh at the idea that he's free from it now, because narcotics don't work on vampires. The pain receptors in their neurons don't respond to it. He never thought he'd replace that addiction with a worse one.
Reid wants to bury his face in his hands, and can't, because of the restraints. He wonders where everyone is, how bad it had been, how bad he'd been, that no one is here sitting with him now. Likely they'd been forbidden to. He's glad. He doesn't want anyone to see him this way. There's an IV hooked up feeding him blood intravenously, likely has been for some time, which explains his cleared mental state. His tongue finds his fangs suddenly and then he can't be anything but preoccupied, like worrying at a loose tooth, except these will never leave.
He won't cry. He just needs to know if he still has his job. He tries to breathe even though he doesn't breathe anymore, to steady himself, and starts coughing instead, which is exactly, of course, when Hotch walks in. Great. Well. At least it's obvious he isn't a ravening monster at the moment (for now).
"Sorry," he wheezes, trying to wipe the water from his eyes on his hospital gown at his shoulder, the most he can move. Conveniently, it lets him hide his face for a moment, too. "Sorry, I, I tried to breathe."
