Hello again, everyone!

I have come up with something new again actually quite some time ago now. It's not what I wanted to upload next, to be honest (I'm still working on that), but this cute little thing here occured while I tried to kill some time in university. It's going to be three chapters long, though I'm not quite finished yet. Just something light, so don't expect too much depth on this one.

This is Slash, just so you know.

Enjoy!

A sanctuary safe and strong.

O~O

It is late at night when he finally arrives.

At least, that is what you assume in retrospective. You cannot really tell for sure and it doesn't matter all that much, anyway. You are already asleep, passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow. The case was tiring, the hotel beds were left unused, the coffee was nothing but watery black ink and you don't know whether the women you saved will be able to turn off the lights around them ever again.

Clooney is snoring at your feet. Normally, you don't allow him in your bed but more often than not he still sneaks up on you, and today his presence is comforting in a way. You patted the place beside you and Clooney jumped up on top of the blankets to settle somewhere near you.

Now, it is late at night (you think) and you stir in your sleep as Clooney raises his head about two minutes before there is even any sound.

He is staring alertly at the bedroom door, ears twitching, snuffling. But he stays silent enough for you to slip back into sleep completely. It is a blissfully dreamless sleep which is never really disturbed that night, not even by the key that hits the keyhole. Reid has arrived and Clooney is off of the bed and out of the bedroom in no time. You shift a little, burying your face further in the pillows and that's it.

Reid types in a code into an input field before shoving the front door key into the fitting hole. It is part of your safety system. If somebody would try to unlock the door without typing in the code (whether by using a key or a lock pick) the alarm would go off. You have given Reid the code written on a piece of paper, along with the house key, months ago.

He didn't even let pass five minutes then, just took a quick look at the note and burned it right away, the figures for your safety system forever engraved in that amazing brain of his.

So now, he types in the code and shoves the key into the hole to unlock the door to slide inside like a shadow. Closing the door, he punches in the code in to a second input field to lock it again. He is doing it quietly, and even though it is pretty much useless because you don't hear him, you still can appreciate the gesture.

There is a soft sound, signaling that the alarm is set again. Even softer footsteps announce Clooney and not a moment later, almost without a warning, Reid feels the dog's paws as Clooney tries to climb him. A muffled bark greets Reid and he is pressed to the door while Clooney wags his tail happily.

Reid sinks to his knees, wanting to calm the dog down, and is nudged and practically toppled over.

Another bark, louder and more demanding, and Reid hushes him with his finger on his lips. "Come on, buddy, it's alright," he whispers, "don't wake up your daddy." Crouching on the ground, Reid is face to face with Clooney and they look at each other before Clooney licks a long stripe across his cheek like a wet welcome home kiss.

Well, maybe not a 'welcome home' but rather a 'welcome back, long time no see'.

Reid pats the fur and the silence returns. Clooney still pants, almost grinning, and nudges his face again with his wet nose. The dog is obviously thrilled to see Reid. He is not fighting him off, he never tried to do that, ever. And when Clooney huffs almost encouragingly and Reid wipes his eyes and downright hugs him, everything is silent and calm and almost okay.

You have never understood what this is with Clooney and Reid. You have never understood what it is about Reid that makes every dog near him go nuts and that makes Clooney go nuts as well, but in a good way, because by now, he is restless with happiness every time Reid is around.

Right now, though, with Reid hugging Clooney because the dog is the only thing there to hold onto, no one cares.

The previous case has been exhausting in more ways than one. Not particularly long but intense and without a chance to take even a short break. A hunt with too much hunters and far too much victims as the prey, that found its end in a maze of victims, darkness and a killer going absolutely berserk.

That Reid had been the one to find both a victim and the Unsub and that neither him nor anyone else had been able to safe that last woman… it has taken its toll on everybody.

It was only a matter of time for Reid to show up here. You don't know whether he knows that you yourself would want him to come to you all the way till the end, but you do know exactly that he won't.

Yet.

It is enough for you that he showed up at all by himself (it is for now, anyway) and that he seeks comfort in Clooney and your home for the time being.

Reid takes a deep breath and shoves Clooney away to stand up. He brought his Go Bag with him like he always does, and like always he leaves it in the hall. Your house is dark and quiet, all lights are out except for one left in the living room. It shines dimly but steadily as it shines every night. A sign for Reid that he is welcome here at all times.

He can come to you whenever he wants to. Whenever he needs to. Here will always a light be shining for him.

Clooney follows him hot on the heels, not yet able to overcome his joy. Additionally to the little lamp next to the couch, Reid turns on another one at the end of the room. It is still rather dark and the light won't reach the bedroom upstairs anyway (whether the door is open or not), but just like the thing with the door, you can appreciate it.

You turn around a bit, lying on your back now, and Reid, as if he has felt your movement, raises his head and looks in the direction of the master bedroom. It doesn't even last three heartbeats and Reid shakes his head because of his self-declared momentarily foolishness.

Out of routine (and one day, you will take your time to think about the fact that you and him already have routines going here) Reid walks past the couch into the kitchen to check up on Clooney's water and food. He skips the former and adds some to the latter and makes Clooney love him that much more when he grants him one of the dog biscuits.

After all, you know Reid knows that dogs are indeed able to sense tension and stuff around themselves (even though he would disagree and argue now, because they don't actually sense it).

"You're good?" Reid asks Clooney, and the dog snorts and shakes his head and the rest of his body, too, and prances a bit around him. A nudge, a bark, a shush from Reid, and boy, was it surprising that Clooney loves him so much. "I'll take that as a yes," Reid murmurs with a half smile.

A fucked up case, for Reid who had to watch the last woman die even more horrible than for you or the rest of the team.

He couldn't stay in his apartment. Although it is not much of a difference, because he was alone there and he is alone here (aside from Clooney), too, it makes him feel better. Once, he tried to explain it to you, when your arrangement was still new for the both (or three) of you, and even without it you can comprehend it, you think.

And anyway, you would be the last person to tell him not to come over.

He pours himself a glass of water before he leaves the kitchen again. Blankets and a pillow are stored in a shelf in the cubby beneath the stairs.

It doesn't take long for him to prepare his bed for the night. Your couch is big enough for two people to get more or less comfortable, and so Reid doesn't object when Clooney jumps on top of the blankets at the foot of it.

The lamp Reid turned on just minutes ago is turned off again, but the light you always let shine for him remains. Reid dims it a bit more, because he lies with his face towards it, but he doesn't shut it off. Well, who could blame him, really? Only hours ago, in the pitch black darkness, there still was enough light for Reid to watch how the last woman died, throat slit open in a deadly bloody grin, before the Unsub who did it just moments ago got shot by Reid, seconds later.

But still, too late.

He couldn't safe her. Nobody could have saved her, but this isn't important. It has been Reid who couldn't safe her. You know it isn't his fault and maybe he knows that, too. But still, he was too late.

He can see it when he closes his eyes. Everything. He can see the woman lying there, bleeding out, half naked and visibly abused, and he can see the Unsub going down right after. He can see the blood. He can smell death and he can hear the shot going off of his own gun, taking yet another life. He is going to lie here a long time, wide awake.

Yet eventually, exhaustion takes over. It always does, sometimes sooner, sometimes later. Clooney is warming his feet and his breathing weight is comforting and grounding just as it has been for you. Facing the living room, facing the couch table and his glass of water, Reid's blinking rate slows down with time passing by. His lids remain closed longer, his eyes are barely open, only slits, and after minutes and hours of replaying the horrors of the day in his head, his brain starts to shut down due to mere depletion. His blinking gets so slow, it would be almost hypnotizing.

And somewhere along the night while lying on your couch with your dog as a protective guardian, Reid's mind becomes numb and he is able to close his eyes for good.

He won't notice until he wakes up in the morning.

You, as a matter of fact, beat him to that. It is 7:56, almost eight in the morning, when you wake up, and the first glimpse of sunlight falls through the window. The sky is slightly clouded and shades of red, blue and light orange paint the sunrise. You lie on your back and just watch it for a moment, until you remember that the alarm is going to go off in about three minutes.

You reach out to shut it, forehandedly, because you obviously don't need it anymore. Though you are still tired and still feel like sleeping on, you only allow yourself to enjoy this state of mind that is hazed with warmth and sleep and burning eyes for a few moments longer.

Forcing out a deep breath, you wipe a hand across your face and further up your shaved scalp. Your skin feels more or less like one big stubble. You move your feet and you notice there is no obstacle. Clooney is gone. Your own dog abandoned you. He would only do this for two reasons, and since you cannot hear him walking around somewhere downstairs, you assume it has nothing to do with him being hungry or thirsty.

Looking at the door, looking at the empty space next to you, you don't know what to feel exactly while you think about that neither Clooney nor anybody else is occupying the bedside on your left. (Though it is not about anybody, it is about Reid not being here. Not anybody, but Reid.)

With a sigh, you shove your legs out of the bed to stand up. It is a bit chilly in your bedroom and a shiver runs down your spine all the way down to your calves, only wearing black boxer briefs.

You step outside the bedroom and rub your shoulders, and you can spot a figure on your couch as soon as you reach the half landing of the stairs. Walking down slowly, quietly, you recognize a pile of blankets. On top of them lies Clooney and raises his head, almost watching you warily, still alertly, even with it being just you coming near Reid.

At night, when Reid chooses to come here, he is Clooney's to protect.

"Calm down, traitor, 's just me," you mumble and Clooney snorts. "Down, come on," you order and your dog obeys, jumps off and disappears into the kitchen. As soon as he is out of view, you can hear him drink, a low burbling of water betraying it.

Reid's legs are free and he turns in his sleep, facing the back rest now. The lamp beside his head still spreads its light and your touch the base to turn it off. He doesn't even stir. The blankets are pulled up all the way to his chin and his breathing stays even.

His face is pale in the morning light and the shadows under his eyes are visible, never really disappearing. You are looking at them for a long time, longer than your realize, and you don't notice how your rest your arms on the back of the couch until you do.

Leaning relaxed against the sofa, you tilt your head a little to the right, getting a better angle to look at Reid's face. Young. Calm. Innocent, but not too much. Most of all, he looks peaceful in a way you haver never seen, unless he is sleeping here. Protected by Clooney, guided by the light that is always shining for him and not more than a call, a few steps away from you.

It is good enough for now, still, but it is not enough.

You lift your hand and reach out for him, barely touching his face. Your fingertips brush his hair and then you stroke the bridge of his nose with the backside of your pointer.

Deliberating movements, slow, idly, and you smile as Reid doesn't flinch away but rather leans into your touch. He is not much for physical contact, much less if he is not expecting it, but with you touching him, it seems to be alright.

You move your finger from between his eyebrows down to the tip of his nose and back up again until it wakes him up.

He presses his head into the cushion unwillingly before blinking his eyes open, and you draw your hand back. Reid doesn't tense up, not one second. He stares blankly ahead, then lifts his eyes to your face, without moving more than absolutely necessary.

"Good morning," he greets quietly and the blankets rustle as he curls up into himself a little more.

"Mornin'," you reply, your smile leaving your lips to crawl into your eyes. Your features soften, seeing him in his most vulnerable state of being and trusting you enough not to hurt him there. As if you would ever do that. "Had a rough night?" you ask, just to say something. As if you wouldn't know.

"A little," he admits, and that much is obvious. Without a rough night, Reid wouldn't come to you.

Yet, at least, but this thought is still kind of bitter, as much as it is thrilling. Because instead of suffering alone and in silence, he comes to you. He doesn't turn to someone else but you, always you, without questioning it. He confides in your, trusts you and you know Reid's rough nights end the moment he enters your home. It is just a bit sad that it takes Reid suffering for him to show up.

And for a second, while he looks up at you and you look down at him, there is this awkward little feeling you get now and then, lately (and lately meaning quite some time, now). As if you have gone too far or as if you still have some distance to go, and you just cannot decide which it is.

You stroke some hair out of his eyes and even now, while in full awareness, he doesn't flinch away. Your fingers linger a heartbeat too long, brush a little too much skin, and this awkward little feeling gets more intense. When Reid clears his throat and you look down at your toes, you know you have gone too far, not far enough.

Clooney barks and you hear his paws scratching the back door. Reid rubs his face and whatever has been there between you and him is not there anymore.

Stepping back, you head off to the kitchen to let Clooney out into the back yard. The floor is cold under your bare feet and behind you the blankets rustle again as Reid sits up. Clooney nudges the hollow of your knee, excitement radiating off of him, and he is off and away as soon as the door opens enough for him to push through.

You lean against the counter, wiping your eyes, still needing to fully wake up. It is chilly in here as well, the brisk air making the hair on your arms stand upright in goosebumps. Coffee would be a good idea or a hot shover or a few more hours of decent dreamless sleep.

Before you can get down to any of it, you hear faint footsteps and when you look up, Reid is standing in the doorway.

He is wearing his usual clothes and you are used to that. When he comes here, when he sleeps on your couch, he wears normal pants and a button down shirt, alternately with or without a sweater vest. No tie, mind you, but still mismatched socks. His Go Bag provides a set of change, additionally to the basics you all carry with you. Shaking your head, you stretch your shoulders while watching him.

"If you're short of PJ's, man , I can lend you some," you say, your stiff muscles aching almost pleasantly. "Honestly, Kid, this can't be comfortable."

At least, he got rid of his belt, you notice. But still, sleeping on your couch in his street clothes… man.

"It's not about being comfortable," he replies, sounding not even off-handedly but quite naturally, as if explaining to you that rain, as a matter of fact, feels actually wet.

And you know that this is not about being comfortable here. You seldom admit it and it is even rarer that he does, but you know it. He does, too. This is not about being comfortable. This is about being here, about being somewhere where he doesn't have to be afraid to close his eyes. This is about him being able to at least try to fall asleep, even if he feels like he cannot do it.

This is about being near someone he trusts utterly and implicitly, and that someone happens to be you.

It is honoring and offbeat and so ironic that it happens to be you, you think sometimes, because you so much epitomize what he has learned to fear (again, who could blame him?).

You don't know how or what to reply but you are willing to try it anyway. A barking Clooney won't let you, though, interrupting you before you even got started. And because Reid and Clooney seem to share an invisible bond, Clooney comes running back into the kitchen just as Reid takes another step towards you.

Barking and jumping and ignoring you completely, your dog dashes past you and is all over Reid in an instant.

The Kid kneels down to pet him, knowing it is the only way to calm Clooney down in his excitement. He gives in so easily. You watch with a half smirk how Reid tries to shove the dog away that bounces back and forth to get Reid to play with him more enthusiastically.

"Can you explain that to me, Doctor?" you ask with mock disbelief as Clooney licks a long stripe right across his face (he insists on his 'welcome back' kisses as well as on his 'good morning, it's been so long and I've missed you so much' kisses).

Reid cringes and pushes the dog's head away (gently, of course), fond disgust betraying his rejection. "Your dog loves me?" he offers with a brilliant little smile that always tugs on something inside you that you cannot quite name.

"Yeah," you laugh, voice so much softer that it has any right to be. "Every dog you meet freaks out and just my dog of all people loves you to pieces."

"Of all people," Reid snorts with an unwilling smile, probably being at odds with semantics, while Clooney puts his paws up his shoulders as if asking him to dance, muzzle stretched open in a tongue dangling grin.

"Cloons," you call out, kind of exhorting, because the dog can be a little bit too much to handle sometimes and because you can see dirt on Reid's shirt where Clooney pawed him. "Clooney!," you say again when he doesn't react, firmer this time.

There is a slight whining noise and your dog's ears twitch as he sinks to the ground ad steps back. "Sit," you order and he obeys right away, rear hitting the ground and tail waging carefully from one side to the other. Looking back and forth between you and Reid and waiting for something to happen, you can sense as well as see he is twitchy with energy.

Slowly, Reid stands up and Clooney wants to, too. "Don't even," you say in a low voice and the dog sinks back. Reid seems to be pretty amused by all that, a smile ghosting over his features, making his pale face glow in an unusual way. This is something meant to be looked at more than once.

It works for you. Every single time.

You clear your throat unobtrusively and walk up to Clooney to grab him by his collar. "Go and live it up outside," you say and lead him to the still open door. "Way too early for you to be that annoying." He is willingly lead out while Reid steps to the coffee maker, starting to collect what he needs to make his life elixir.

Moving your arms in circles to loosen the muscles there, turning around, watching his back, you wonder about the situation displaying in front of you. Reid moves so easy in your home, without over-thinking it, without being all self-conscious about it. As if he belongs here.

Well, in fact, he does. Or he could. Or whatever. You don't know what exactly, but it looks good, and maybe, probably, you should freak out at how naturally he seems to fit in here and at how little it disturbs you. But the thing is: you are past it, past freaking out. Maybe you should freak out because you are not freaking out.

But you don't.

Right now you simply try to figure out what it means. To him. To you. You try to figure out what this is. Or could be. Or whatever.

Noticing Clooney's bowl still half filled with food, you sigh, smiling though. "You're spoiling my dog, man," you say light-heartedly, leaning against the counter, a few steps away from Reid.

That makes him prick up his ears, but he doesn't look at you. "Excuse me, what?" he asks, and you can see the grin he tries to fight crincle his eyes. "And just how am I spoiling your dog, you think?"

You cross your arms loose above your chest, leaning your head against one of the wall cupboards. "I don't know how you're doing it, Reid, are you hiding steaks somewhere beneath all those layers o' yours?" you ask back. "All the time I'm waiting for the Reid-effect to catch up and all I get is my dog adoring you like there's no tomorrow."

It is always quite fascinating to watch Reid fix the coffee. He uses more coffee powder than you do. He uses one pinch of salt or sometimes even two. He uses at least one piece of dark chocolate, putting it in the filter on top of the powder. And even though you can never really name the difference, there is still no coffee that tastes like Reid's coffee tastes.

"Clooney seems to have good taste," Reid says, serious for only a second before he laughs softly to weaken his previous statement. Maybe he didn't even meant to do so. Still, he laughs about his own words, laughs them off.

You need a moment to find you way back into the conversation, to understand what he is talking about. Dogs freaking out. Reid-effect. Clooney loving Reid despite the Reid-effect. Clooney having good taste for loving Reid.

Right. And yeah, maybe.

Maybe he does have a good taste. Clooney is your dog after all. And he is a smart dog. And you like to thing that you are a smart master as well. And since you might have a thing for Reid, too, maybe it is natural for Clooney to… well, at least it is quite convenient.

It is good to know Clooney gives his blessing. To whatever you might need it.

The sound of coffee dripping into the pot and its fresh, heavy scent fill the air, and you watch Reid watching the coffee maker. He looks tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes, and he could most definitely use some more hours of sleep, even more so than you do.

"You came here pretty late, didn't you," you ask, but it doesn't sound like a question because you already know the answer. Reid always comes here late, if he shows up at all. Lately, he does that more often, though.

Reid doesn't look at you, eyes fixed to the black liquid. "I wasn't sure I should come," he answers off-handedly. As if it would be a normal thing to think that he is not welcome here.

"What? Why not?" you ask.

Now he looks at you from the side, head turned just enough to take you into focus. He seems distant, which is rare because distance between you and him disappeared over the years and nowadays Reid is one of the people closest to you. Closer than most. Almost anyone.

"I can't just come here every time I have… a bad night, I mean I… I shouldn't just come here, what if…," he trails off, without sounding like really trailing off because h sounds like he simply stops talking.

"What if what?" you ask. You can guess what he is about to say and you don't quite know what to think about it, too much feelings cursing too fast through your mind to name one.

Reid is watching the coffee maker again. He is unwilling to tell you more. That is what his expression is telling you. "Reid," you say a little urgently and step away from your side of the counter. He rests both his hand on top of the counter, back towards you, facing the machine. "Man, you know you can always come here, Pretty Boy."

Hearing his nickname, he turns his head a little that the tip of his noise is visible for you. "I know that you think that," he answers, "and I appreciate it very much but I can't do that. You know that, too. What if you're with someone? I can't just… intrude like that."

You haven't been with someone in weeks. Months, even. And even before that, never in a serious way, never for more than having a little fun or simply fucking or trying to forget on both sides. Maybe Reid knows. Maybe he doesn't. You think he does. And since you think he knows, there hasn't been anyone. It just wasn't possible, somehow.

He doesn't move, waiting for an answer, and what can you say? It is so obvious, isn't it? "Reid, you know you're not intruding."

"What if you'd meet a girl you like?" he asks, and it is so strange that he acknowledges the possibility for you while he doesn't even seem to be interested in that himself. To find a girl he likes. To find someone he likes. He shifts his weight and lifts his shoulders a little. "What if you bring her here? She'd find it pretty strange for me to come here in the middle of the night as if this'd be a normal thing to do."

"Man, there's no girl," you say, staring at his back, because he should know. There is not anybody. There is you and Clooney. And him. "And I don't care about that. I told you to come here. That's not gonna change. I'd choose you over anybody." Anytime. Over any girl you could ever meet. Any someone out there. Because the one who is important is already here, right in front of you. And even though you didn't want to say the last part out loud, maybe it is good for him to know where you stand.

He doesn't react to your words, though. At least, you cannot see a reaction. Reid has always been the one to deal with things quietly for himself, because he had to for such a long time. Old habits die hard, you know that pretty damn well yourself.

Maybe that is what makes you take a step towards him.

But man, he should know. He should just know it. He is a friggin' genius with more degrees than should be possible and there are keep coming more. Reid should know. How come he doesn't? How come you don't? You are in no position to blame him for something you are not sure about yourself, but… this is… man.

Suddenly, you are standing right in front of him. Or behind him, since it is his back that almost touches your chest.

Reid is as tall as you are and you stare at the base of his neck where pale skin shimmers through auburn hair. You like that. The girls you go out with, you dance with are naturally almost all shorter than you. This is cute and you like how they bring out the protector in you. But with Reid, where it never got physical but always was so very much more than skin-deep, it is a different thing. Your protective instinct reacts on a totally different level and you like that you are able to meet him on eye level in every meaning of the phrase.

One heartbeat you wait, two heartbeats eve,n and he doesn't react. He has to notice your presence breaching into his personal space bubble. You want him to do something, to flinch away, to lean into you, to simply let you know what he wants and where you stand in his world.

But maybe you have to settle for the fact that he doesn't do anything, that he doesn't flinch away. Reid can be strange about this whole touching stuff. He doesn't trust just anyone. It took ages for the two of you to archive what you have today.

It takes all you have been through together for you to stand behind him now, so close, and for him not to shy away. His trust in you, the jock, the kind of guy he has learned to fear so much, is so comprehensive… just look at this, man.

Slowly, so slowly, you raise your hands and put them on the edge of the counter. Your fingers almost brush his and your arms encircle his body. He is trapped. He isn't but he is. He could feel trapped. He doesn't have to feel trapped, just one word and you would back off. You are afraid that he will do that, that this simple action gets thrown back in your face.

Reid keeps his head down and cranes his neck, unconsciously bringing it closer to your face, exposing it.

You lean in, your chest touching his shoulder blades. It feels nice. Reid is not curvy and soft, he is all slender and muscled in an unflashy way, straightforward in everything he is and does. You don't want to pull away. Apparently, he doesn't want you to, either.

The coffee maker bubbles, the last sounds before it gets silent. It is a fragile silence, a moment detached, something precious. A border you both need to cross to head right into unknown realms. With him, it might be alright. It might work.

With him.

Your nose and your mouth meet his hair and it is soft and smells… clean. A light scent you cannot quite describe but fits him. There is a tiny but sharp intake of breath on his side and you consider for a moment to pull away and to let him be and to pretend like that never happened.

His body seems a little tense and you imagine you feel heat radiating from him. More heat, that is. Giving him the opportunity to back out of this, you let your arms get loose, your grip easy enough to break.

But what if he does break free now? What do you do then? Pretend this never happened? Even though you know it did? And you know that he knows it, too?

Waiting for the inevitable without having a clue what to do afterwards, your breathing goes slow and is filled with his scent and his warmth. Your pointer curls around his pinky and when it almost curls around yours, too, it is the last straw. Your grip around the edge tightens and suddenly, your body is plastered to his, your chest touches his shoulders, your belly touches his back, even your groin is pressed to his butt.

He presses back.

"Next time you get your ass under the covers," you murmur near his ear. Reid doesn't move a bit.

"I was under the covers," he says, sounding quiet but calm. Calm is good, you guess.

"Under the covers in a bed," you state more precisely, pressing further into him and enjoying that he stands his ground. Can this situation get any stranger? Here you are, trapping your genius co-worker you have a thing for, like, since forever, with your body, and yet you seem to be too much of a coward to properly take his hand.

"I can take the guest room, if you want me to," he answers, and his voice is breathy in the slightest way.

You push yourself up in a way you haven't expected. Suddenly, your front feels hot and your back gets cold and your eyes are closed. Your arms could encircle him so easily but they don't, and your face is buried in his hair.

"Under the covers in my bed," you murmur. Quietly, oh so quietly. Maybe too quietly, maybe he didn't hear it. But you cannot repeat it, you don't know why or how but you know you can't.

He turns his head the tiniest bit to the left and all of a sudden your mouth is behind his ear just above this soft spot. It is such a new situation that you involuntarily open your eyes, staring blankly ahead. Confusing, pretty much so. Maybe this is where it is too much, where you have lost control and went overboard.

Somehow, your lips behind his ear seem to be much more important than his ass against your groin.

It is very likely hat he snaps out of it now. This has to shake him awake. Just what are you doing, Derek? This is Reid here, your best friend, man. Are you trying to jump his bones right in your kitchen? But he still doesn't pull the brakes. Why doesn't he pull the brakes already? He must have noticed by now that this is quite serious for you. Doesn't he get that you aren't just joking around, that you really do mean it?

Get ahold of yourself, Derek, for god's sake.

You press your mouth against his ear. It is not even a real kiss, only a touch of particular skin and particular skin. Then, it is gone because you pull away. Your fingers slip out of his curled ones (they are curled, around yours) and you take a step back.

His heat is gone and you feel cold and Reid doesn't move and it is just what you have expected. Goddammit. What has gotten into you? You should have known that it is too much too soon. Or too little too late (which is somehow frightening).

There seems to be a gap between him and you, so suddenly and so deep that you feel like you are about to lose balance and fall right into it. You want to reach out for him, already raising your hand to put it on his back, between his shoulders where it has been more times than you can count. It hovers just above his shirt.

'I didn't mean it that way.'

'I meant it exactly that way.'

'I don't know if that's something you'd want, but if it is, I'm all for it.'

'I'd like to have dinner with you, with all that romantic crap, and then get all down and dirty with you, y'know.'

So many things you could say, but your jaw is clenched, the muscles so tense you cannot get a single word out. You want him to turn around and face you and smack you or kiss you or both. You don't care, just let him show a friggin' reaction.

But he doesn't and you don't, and you exhale slowly, averting your face. It is in that moment, though, that he aches his back against you. It is all in that moment that you look away and he meets you halfway and your hand sinks and your fingertips brush his spine.

It goes unnoticed and you step back. Really, you guys.

"I've dibs on the first shower," you let Reid know, and you find it rather difficult not to let your voice sound… funny.

You are kind of disappointed. You shouldn't. You have no idea what has gotten into you, and how could you blame Reid for not actively participating in your attempt to have almost-sex, electively on your kitchen table or right on the counter? Derek, man, have your lost your mind or what? What did you expect? Maybe all this tip-toeing around each other can do that to you. You wanted, you needed to make a move, any move and since you are not willing to let this slip, full speed ahead was the only possible option.

'Full speed' might be discussible. The general direction as well.

Maybe this is something you don't have to worry for much longer, though. A thought you don't want to have, and you walk through the door, trying to shake it off. You are a profiler, for heaven's sake, and you are good at it. And there are things you simply cannot chalk up on whatever. You two are close, undeniably so. The question is just: in which way?

Because (at least on your side) brotherly is far from it.

"Ten minutes max," you inform him to lighten the mood, to distract him and yourself from… this. "I'll save you some hot water."

A cold shover might just be what you need, you see. You leave the kitchen without looking back and your home seems somewhat colder now. Reid's faint "Thanks" rings in your ears and you bow your head but you don't stop. Next time, you don't back off, you swear to yourself. You won't force anything onto Reid, you would never to something like that. But there is something going on between you and him, something you think could be good, and you want to know where you two stand. Next time you are going to be just as straightforward.

Next time.

That's all for now. Two more parts to go.

Like always, I'm curious as to what you think about it, so let me know.

The next chapters will be similar in a way, of course, and it's totally and entirely focused on these two and their relationship, just in case you've been hoping for some action or something. Not this time, my pretties.

Thanks for reading and see you soon, hopefully.

Bluey

P.S.: Just in case you were wondering the title as well as the chapter headings are borrowed from the song "So it goes". If I'm not completely mistaken, the original was by Billy Joel. But here, I've bee listening to and referring to the version by Marianas Trench.