Questions keep floating around his head and for once, he doesn't have answers that he hasn't either read up on or memorized beforehand. He knows that they're talking about it. The weekend. And he can't say anything for or against because he doesn't know where they stand.
She's not in yet, which is strange because she's always early. Always. She's in when he gets in, sitting at her desk, cup of coffee steaming on her hand as she fills out information in those manila coloured envelopes they always end up swamped in, trudging through for hours on end.
She hurries in, late, mumbling apologies as she sits down, eyes looking only at the blood dripped picture on the screen. Their chairs are next to each other, but he can't look at her and JJ continues.
The plane's quiet and he can't look at her. He doesn't want to know that she's mad about Saturday morning when he left and didn't wake her up, didn't know what to say. So he crept away with the morning and ignored the phone call that slid across his phone later that day.
They're paired up as soon as they land and, off they go, the vehicle quiet like when he drove her home on Friday night. He turns on the radio, she turns it off. He open a window, she closes it. He's not a confrontational guy so he says nothing.
They arrive and exit the frigid silenced vehicle. The crime scene is as the pictures show it, except the colours are sharper, outlines less blurred and he forgets about emotions and problems. Instead, he sees outlines around details, marking where they are, cataloguing them, thinking out loud to what they mean. Kacey says something in agreement with what he says and forty minutes later they're on their way to the local station.
It's tricky catching 'bad guys'. Don't let anyone tell you other wise, and he's over tired and cut down to what leaves him human when they return to the plane, blinds drawn so they can sleep, though he's sure they would be able to anyways.
Landing, they're all making plans and Derek's once more got plans with Garcia, and Kacey's left at the entrance of FBI headquarters.
He offers a ride home, but, like the windows and the radio, she turns him down and off, saying she's called a cab. As he walks away he hears his voice called and he stops, but stays facing the street.
There's silence for a moment, but then she whispers, "I'm sorry," into the curve of his neck.
He stands still for a moment and then turns around to see she's still there and then they're up against his black SUV, her head cradled in his hands so it won't hit the vehicle. Her hands slipping from his chest to his back pockets and up his back. He can feel her fingernails through the fabric of his shirt (he forgot to put on his jacket on his way out) and she sighs against his mouth, just like Friday.
That gets him to stop. Her eyes ask why, and he whispers, "Aren't you mad about Saturday? When I left?"
She shakes her head, "Well, I was. But, not anymore. I know that it must have been weird for you," she shrugs, "I get it, don't worry."
And this time, when he sees the morning sunshine (too early for his taste) slipping through the blinds, he just pulls the covers closer and sighs when she curls in closer, smiling and whispering a, "Good morning," that's cut short.
