Chapter Eleven
Ethan frowned slightly and flipped his phone closed. He caught Morgan watching him as he opened his jacket to slip it back inside the pocket. The atmosphere in the busy French restaurant was busy and festive around them, and Ethan was glad to have company this evening, especially the company of a man who had become a trusted friend.
"He still isn't answering?"
"I'm sorry," Ethan said, trying to smile, "I'm not trying to be rude. It's just that I haven't connected with him in a few days. . ."
"No, don't apologize, Man."
The waiter brought two steaming plates of bouillabaise and set them before the two men. "I'm glad you could come down," Ethan said as he picked up a mussel shell with his fingers. "Kind of weird, always talking on the phone, you know?"
"Yeah, it is . . " answered Morgan, letting his eyes linger on Ethan's a few seconds longer than they should have. He picked at a shrimp for a few moments and then ventured, "Ethan, I need to tell you. Uh . . . Reid saw the ticket. My ticket to come down here. It was an accident, I dropped some papers."
Ethan paused momentarily, looking at Morgan. Then he shrugged and went back to his food. "It's okay. So you came down to have some fun in New Orleans. People do it all the time. He knows we're friends."
"Yeah, sure. You're right."
"Nothing is happening he needs to know about."
"No . . ."
"Derrick," Ethan put his fork down and leaned his elbows on the table, "I need you to know, I'm not an asshole. I mean, I told Spencer that I had been with someone and we got past it. I'm not going to screw it up again. I owe him better."
Morgan felt heat in his face and wondered if it was from too much wine. "I appreciate that you didn't say it was me, Man."
"Well, you have to work together. Besides," Ethan stared into Morgan's eyes, "he is your friend."
Morgan wiped his mouth with his napkin. He fiddled with the stem of the wine glass. Ethan picked up the bottle from the other side of the table and refilled Morgan's glass for him.
"Ethan," Morgan began slowly, "I needed to ask you, and I wanted to do it face to face. . . why did it happen? Between us?"
"Are you sorry?"
"No, not at all. . ."
"I'm glad," came Ethan's slow drawl, drawing Morgan in. "I wouldn't want to do you any harm, Derrick Morgan."
After a few minutes of silence, Morgan said, "You didn't answer me."
Ethan sighed. "I'm not sorry either. I was in a bad way that day." He recalled their many late night conversations around his issues with Spencer, "You have been a true friend, Man."
"So it . . . it was comfort," Morgan stated.
"Partly," Ethan was straight forward if anything, and it made Morgan trust him. "But I need you to know that if Spence weren't in my life, you might be. I mean . . . if you even wanted to be."
Morgan stared at him, wondering if there were some hidden hint in the words that he was supposed to get. Ethan laughed, "I mean, don't get me wrong. I am totally with him. I am crazy for him. You know what I would do for him, but . . " his voice softened, as he looked down at his wine glass, "I am not sorry about what happened between us, Derrick. I don't know how to be." He took a large swallow, emptying the glass.
"How have you been," he continued softly. "Have you been okay?"
Morgan knew what Ethan meant. He was asking if their experience together had been something that Morgan had been able to accept and be content with. Ethan knew that Morgan had never been with a man willingly. It moved Morgan to hear Ethan ask after his welfare.
"I'm good, Man. I'm good."
The waiter cleared their plates and Ethan ordered them dessert and cognac, without asking if Derrick wanted it.
"Hey Ethan," Derrick said carefully, "how does it feel? How do you do it?"
Ethan leveled his gaze at Derrick, guessing at what was coming.
"I mean," Derrick continued, "nothing has changed. You told me over a month ago that it hurt you, Man, that he couldn't want you the same way. You said, I'm so tired of half a relationship. You said you needed more. So," Morgan cleared his throat, "How have you come to terms with that?"
"I haven't," said Ethan. He nodded and smiled at the waiter as a glass of cognac was put before him. "I haven't Man. But I know I'm not ready to give up either."
But you will be, thought Morgan. He understood that Ethan was honoring the boundary he had clearly drawn in their conversations since Ethan's visit to Quantico those weeks ago. But still, it made him angry to think that Ethan was settling. He wished that he could tell Ethan what their time together had meant to him. That he had discovered a whole world, where sex with another human being could actually feel magical and fulfilling even for him. That after decades of living with confusion and lies, the deepest part of his being had finally made some sense to him. That the rest of his life's path would be forever changed for the better because Ethan had dared to touch him. But for now it had to be enough to be sitting across the table from this man whom Morgan had come to see as amazingly compassionate. It had to be enough to remember what it had been like to be touched by him. Reid had no idea how lucky he was.
He raised his glass of cognac toward Ethan. "Whatever happens, Man, I wish for you the happiness you deserve," and as they tasted the warm liquor their eyes met in understanding and spoke words that couldn't be said out loud.
~~/~~
Reid had made an effort to spend every hour he had off from the job on the farm with Elle. Whether a weekend or a few days midweek after a hard case, he had made the trip out to be at her side, an overnight bag always in tow. She loved having him there, and him wanting to be a part of her life. His attempts at manual labor got less comical and more practiced. He had become quite the farmhand. Much to her contentment, he had begged her to teach him the finer points to riding. They had worked long evening hours together in the corral, Reid up on a horse accepting her instructions without argument - his stiffened posture softening as the weeks passed, his eyebrows knit in concentration, forcing his non-athletic body to learn faster, work harder. She laughed to see him developing muscles he didn't even know he had - he usually limped around stiffly the next morning until the day's work had loosened him up again.
Where once he had moved nervously, cautiously, when in close proximity to the horses - keeping one eye on them at all times during conversation with her - he now moved in a practiced but relaxed manner around them. He was careful to walk a wide arc around their behinds, approach them not head-on but from the side, laying on a reassuring hand to alert the horse of his presence, and mimicking Elle's soft manner of greeting. He had begun to ask questions about the business of breeding, and she had found a book on equine genetics, and another exploring details of equine behavior, in his room when she was in tidying up. She had given him a few books on riding, and he had sat up late in the parlor with a yellow outline marker, devouring them. Once she had found him in the barn, his elegant hands expertly braiding a mane and tail in preparation for a show - a skill for which she had practiced many months before being able to do it so well.
Elle found herself looking forward to his visits and to having someone around whom she trusted implicitly and in whom she could confide just about anything that came into her head. After all, once she had sat in a hotel room and told him how it felt to try to heal after being stalked and shot point blank. After that, what could one possibly hide? He had told her more about his ordeals too - she was horrified to hear the details of his torture and his addiction, and after hearing these things her respect for him grew. She found when she looked at him that she could hardly begin to reconcile the picture of the handsome, boyish, bookish man before her with the horrors that he had suffered. She had begun to understand that it was likely that everyone who had ever come into contact with him - including herself - had grossly underestimated his enormous inner strengths.
Their conversation came easy now no matter what the subject - she had to admit to herself that she laughed more with Reid than she ever had with any other person, except maybe her best childhood friend when she was seven years old. Reid was witty when he wanted to be, and funny when he didn't intend to be. He taught her things; she didn't mind when he went on one of his lecturing rambles. He listened to her without complaint, he worked beside her with interest and devotion, and when they turned in at night, he always kissed her cheek and told her how beautiful she looked when pregnant, she smirking a smile at his attempt at chivalry. A few times she had caught his eyes on her stomach, searching for evidence of a bulge. "It will take a few months, Reid, but you'll be the first to know," she had joked, and he had looked away blushing.
~~/~~
"Reid," she said one day as they worked curry combs over the horses, "remember what I told you about the shooting? That I saw something?"
"Yeah," he said slowly, continuing to work. "What about it?"
"Something like that happened a few weeks back."
"You mean now? When?"
"Right after you were first here. When I hired Emilio."
He stopped brushing and looked at her over the back of his horse. "What do you mean? What happened?"
"I was in the kitchen with him. I had just met him. And . . ," she walked around the front of his horse to stand and look at him, "I saw him all bloody and beaten. I saw it as if it were real." She looked at him waiting.
"Did you tell him?" he asked as he went back to brushing.
"No. I spilled coffee all over the place. I'm sure he thought he had come to work for a crazy person."
"What does it mean?" he asked.
Elle studied him quietly, grateful for his absolute lack of questioning her judgment. "I don't know. The two kids were beaten to death, right?"
"Yeah," he stood straight again and looked at her, "the male was strangled. The girl's skull was caved in." He instantly regretted his typical lack of tact as Elle winced at the memory of the two young employees alive. "I'm sorry. . ."
"He beat them, nothing else," she continued. She looked past him into the wall. "I have to wonder if he might be a potential victim. Emilio I mean."
"Well, is he from Roanoke? Worked horse farms there?"
She looked back at Reid, nodding. He was about to say something in response when they heard the sound of a pickup in the drive outside the barn. Elle tossed her curry comb in the bucket and walked outside to meet the visitor.
Reid rubbed a cloth over the horse's coat to remove the last of the loose dirt. He marveled that he so readily believed her: after all, his brain functioned around logic. But this was Elle. She was so . . no-nonsensical. Whatever these visions of hers were - and he chuckled to himself at the silliness of the term - she herself took them seriously. He had to as well. He knew her too well to assume she would be given too casually to fantastical theories. He had never thought much about psychic abilities - since science knew next to nothing about it and had studied it only sporadically and non-thoroughly. There was nothing to prove it was real, but really nothing yet to disprove it either. Because these perceptions in question were Elle's, he had resolved to keep an open mind. She had said something about her mother's Cuban roots and it being common in her family. And who knew - perhaps it really was.
But then something about this new revelation disturbed Reid. He had surprised himself as he had grown increasingly protective of Elle. He worked to keep himself in check so that she didn't notice - he instinctively knew that she wouldn't easily accept it or necessarily even appreciate it. Although they had worked hard at this case initially, it had grown cold and Hotch had pulled the team off - at least officially - in order to free them up for more immediate cases. Now, he wondered where the killer was, and if he was still operating. The bodies had been the victims of rage. Rage required a trigger. He had pondered for weeks what that trigger could possibly be, but had found nothing to lead him to a possible answer. He knew that that trigger could reoccur at any time, and because the team had no idea what it was - and who the unsub might be - they were helpless to prevent further violence. This was the part of the job he hated: cold trails, the helpless feeling at not being able to warn or protect the next potential victim. What if . . . he mused, the tool that could change that was an ability that they didn't understand and so dismissed? And ability such as the one Elle believed she might have?
"She is still favoring her front right leg, though," Elle was saying, as she led Dr. Ellington into the barn. He nodded to Reid as they passed. She opened the door of a stall and led out her chestnut filly.
Ellington passed a hand over her right fetlock; he lifted the foot and flexed it. The horse stomped and snorted. "Trot her for me," he said to Elle. She ran the horse in the aisle from one end of the barn to the other and back again, stopping at Brad.
"Well," he said, "it's definitely a splint. You been working her too hard?"
Reid stopped his work to listen harder. He sensed Elle's chafing at the over-familiar question. "No I haven't. You know that. She's a gaited breed - I know it can happen."
"Hmm. It can." Ellington said, unwilling to stop pressing the doubt in Elle's mind. He stooped to feel the leg again.
"Don't work her without splint boots. I'll come out in a few days," he said as he straightened to look at Elle.
"A few weeks," she said, returning his stare. Reid saw the stare and her posture as it straightened, exploiting every inch of height possible. She was digging in her heels.
Ellington shrugged, and picked up his bag. "Call if you need anything." He strode out past Reid, his eyes giving the younger man a once-over as he went by. Elle stood beside her filly, looking at the floor of the barn until they heard the pickup engine start up, the tires rolling away down the drive. Then she led the horse back into the stall.
