Welcome back, everyone!
I'm so sorry for taking so long with the update. I actually wanted to have it done last week but then life had to put a crimp in and I had to prepare for presenting a paper and stuff like that and thus the update is delayed.
But here it is and it is still Slash! And it gets slashier by the paragraph here.
Enjoy!
My silence is my self-defense.
O~O
It is late at night when you finally arrive.
The sound of the engine dies down as you turn the ignition key, and silence and darkness engulf you, swallowing you whole. The air feels thick around you and you exhale slowly, letting your body go lax for only a moment. Your head tilts back until it hits the headrest of the seat and your tongue is pressed through your teeth, denting your left cheek. You are almost done, man, come on, you are almost there.
And with that in mind, you pick yourself up and climb out of your car, muscles too stiff, body too tired, almost too heavy to move. You drag yourself along the pavement and barely hear the faint beep of the central locking of your car.
It is past midnight, pitch-black and, arriving at the apartment building, you realize that the lights are flickering. The front door isn't locked, you can easily push it open. Absolutely great. You walk past the elevator, taking the stairs instead because you don't trust the machinery here, but apart from all that is wrong, everything is quite alright. But of course, when you reach the right floor, the lights are completely out and the switch doesn't change that.
The emergency lightning guides you through the corridor and shows vaguely where you have to be careful not to collide with the walls. The numbers on the doors shimmer darkly, and finally, you are standing in front of the right one. You exhale again, leaning against the door frame and making it creak with your full body weight, and you shove the key into the hole. Hopefully, Reid hasn't used the door chain, you think, while you simultaneously hope he has.
Since forever you try to get Reid to move someplace more secure, where the doors are locked and lights are working like they should. On duty, you are in enough danger at it is – at least in private, you should be allowed to feel somewhat safe.
But Reid says, he does feel safe. This is his home. So you try not to press too much and enjoy the times he really is safe with you, protected by a high-tech safety system and one hundred and thirty pounds of trained guard dog.
"C'mon," you murmur, thinking please and please don't, and then you push the door open. It goes unstopped by the chain and you puff out your breath relieved and defeated all at once.
Slipping inside, you wait a second for your eyes to adjust to the murkiness inside of Reid's apartment. It doesn't take long, in fact, because it is not that much brighter in the hall with the emergency lightning. Reid's own nightlight casts the living room in a greenish yellow light, and that is just as good.
You close the door, lock it and use the chain this time as well. No need not to use it. It is past midnight and behind you lies a week full of paperwork, and the nightlight glowing in the otherwise surrounding darkness here indicates that Reid has gone to bed already. That is okay for you. Very okay. You have expected that.
Feeling a little like running completely on autopilot, you shake off your leather jacket and kick off your shoes and wipe your face with both hands, without really realizing any of it.
It should be intruding or disturbing or at least awkward to be here after the last few days and in general, too. But it feels nothing but familiar when you recognize the faint smell of old books and everlasting coffee flavor in the air and you could stay here, you think, and indulge in it until the first glimpse of morning light and be as content as possible right now.
But your feet don't allow you any rest, dragging you forcefully through the tiny hall. Or, to be more accurate, your whole body screams for a rest and forces you to comply to that.
Stepping into the living room, you turn on the small reading light standing on a small end table next to the couch because you are not in the mood to stumble around in the darkness of Reid's apartment. The TV comes to live as well. It is an old device, tube even, because Reid doesn't really need the newest stuff with whatever gimmick there might be. And it is rare for everyone of you to spend enough time at home to enjoy trivial things such as watching TV. Apart from that and anyway, Reid is more the type who would read rather than numbly follow some TV show when he is alone. But he thinks a TV is required for a home to be called 'normal'.
And normal is something you all want.
You don't need more light to find the kitchen, for it is only an open niche, the size of half a room, next to the living room. It is not far and the fridge is not exactly empty, but it offers you nothing to your liking. You would love a beer now, it wouldn't even have to be cold. But you know you won't find any here, so you settle for some grape juice. This is indeed cold. Opening the bottle, the glass feels icy as you take a sip.
Your stomach rumbles and something similar to hunger tingles in the pit of it. You should probably eat something, since the last thing you ate was a donut for breakfast. But you don't feel hungry. With your fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, you shuffle back to the couch, falling heavily onto it.
And finally, finally, you feel like some of the pressure that weights onto you is lifted from your chest.
Taking another sip, you move your back that it cracks somewhere in your spine. Relax, man, will you? You made it. You are here, occupying the couch of your favorite boy genius, and right now, after all that happened, it can hardly get any better. Or at least, it could easily be much worse.
The TV whispers on the lowest level, unlikely to disturb Reid because even you barely hear a thing. And the door to his bedroom is closed, anyway. So you can enjoy the show that is pretty much muted. But it is enough to take your mind off of unpleasant things you don't want to think about now, and you watch a busty woman pace a foreign and too bright living room, while the man she is talking to doesn't move from his spot next to the piano. Good God, what the hell is this? Her bickering is a wavering rush of unheard words. He is holding a glass with Scotch or Cognac or Whiskey or whatever. You would like to have that, too. But you have to settle for oh so delicious grape juice.
Maybe you should talk to Reid about that sometime. But then on the other hand, there is enough stuff you should talk about with him sometime, right? Right.
The chick in that flick screams and cries tiny noises and her mascara runs down her cheeks in black trickles. Fake, absolutely. You grew up with two sisters, you know what a girl looks like when she cries while wearing make-up (and it takes some time to look that smeared up).
Then she slaps her equally talented co-star in his face, and that idiot smashes the glass he is holding to the ground where it shatters to pieces. On purpose. "Aww, man," you sigh at the sight of that unbelievable waste. There are men out there who would have wanted that drink. No need to squander it, not even to grab that blondie by her shoulders and kiss her. She doesn't even want to be kissed, she shoves him away and slaps him again. But he tries relentlessly, grabs her again and presses his mouth to hers. And suddenly, she wants to be kissed, seemingly.
That's quite fucked up, you think blankly. Slaps him two times and gets kissed for it. You wouldn't want to kiss a woman like that. But to be honest, there are not much women out there who you would want to kiss at that moment.
Your head leans against the back of the couch and you move it a little, just the tiniest bit, in the direction of Reid's bedroom. He probably went to bed pretty early today and that was foreseeable from the start. No matter how much of a genius he is, there is a point where even he has to tire out after almost a week with nothing but paperwork.
It is funny how you sometimes imagine him to sleep in the middle of a chaotic pile of dozens and dozens of books when you know for a fact that Reid is actually rather neat. Neither his apartment nor his workspace is messy, they are just… too small, kind of. He needs to pile his belongings, his books and files and papers, to make them fit into the place he has available. Like his head sometimes seems too small for all the knowledge it contains, and he sometimes stumbles over his words because he wants to say too much at once. Something both that blonde woman and her masochistic lover probably never heard of.
And oh, look. While they are frantically kissing they get disturbed by yet another blonde lady and the shouting and screaming and crying continues. It gets freakier by the minute there.
A few more moments, you manage to sit upright as your lids get heavier every time you blink. Your body is so drained that its numbness finally starts to spread out into your mind and makes you sleepy. Took you long enough. But it simply wasn't possible for you to get here any sooner.
Your whole body pushes forward as you put the not even half empty bottle of grape juice on the coffee table in front of you. Lifting your ass a little, you pull out your wallet from your back pocket to chuck it next to it and it hits one of said piles of journals. You try to handle your phone more carefully, but it takes all the strength you have left for you to lift your arm enough to place it somewhat gently next to the grape juice.
Letting your weight fall back again with a groan, you let yourself slide to the side until your right shoulder hits the seat next to you. For a moment, you stay that way with your feet on the ground and your upper half lying down, because you find it strangely comfortable and a nagging pain curses sweetly through your torso.
But you give in to the urge to sprawl out completely soon enough. Moaning, you lift your legs and shift a little, stretching and moving, until finally your head is rested on one armrest and your calves on the other. One could assume you would find Reid's couch too small or something, but beat as you are, you cannot concentrate on anything other than the ache in your back. Kind of pleasurable.
You hold your breath, turning to your back and staring at the ceiling that reflects the greenish light around you dimly. As you exhale you feel shrunken, both mentally and physically. The TV casts shadows on your face, glowing bluish on your skin, and it draws your eye. Turning your head, you roll over to your side and settle to either look without watching or fall asleep along the way.
In retrospective, it is abundantly clear that you go for the latter. Who would have thought?
The drama displaying in front of you disappears behind too heavy lids and you don't see whether or not the one blonde lady actually gets slapped by the other blonde lady. The last thing you are really truly aware of is a blur of too bright faces that move their lips too fast with no sound. You raise your arm to cover your eyes and somehow, you turn away from the screen in that process.
Breathing slowed down, body heavy and numb with tiredness and trapped somewhere in that state of almost sleeping, you don't know how much time actually has passed when you think you hear something that sounds like Reid's bedroom door sliding open. There are two or maybe three footsteps you might as well be imagining, but nothing follows afterwards, so it was probably really just your dazed mind. After a minute or so, you hear them again, though. Soft, so soft footsteps.
But you cannot bring yourself to react to them. You ignore them, arm still covering your eyes, pressed to the back of the couch. Something, someone is near you, you can sense it and you should be alerted immediately, but you are at Reid's and you adjusted the door chain, and a weight lowers itself on you. From your feet up to your shoulders, and the smell of fabric conditioner reaches your nostrils.
A blanket.
"Lift your head," your hear Reid's voice, words so low that they are barely even a whisper anymore.
It is unexpectedly difficult to comply to his order, though, and you groan as you try. Warm fingers from someone who stands behind you sneak beneath you, cupping your jaw and raising your head for you to shove a pillow between you and the armrest. Warmth is growing all around you, engulfing you, making you aware of how cold you just have been.
Reid's fingertips slide across your cheek and his other hand sort of strokes your shoulder as he pulls away slowly, and you grab that one before it can disappear completely.
He halts.
You pull him back, almost tucking his hand under your chin, and you wouldn't do something like that if you would be more awake. But you aren't, you are half asleep, your body tingling with the need to pass out and give in already, and your nose skims his wrist. His skin is soft against your lips.
Maybe he thinks you are sleeping and acting without being aware of it. And maybe he is right. Your eyes are closed and you could just as well be dreaming. Or hallucinating. He tries to loosen your grip with his other hand without waking you up. You make a sound, a growl perhaps, and he stills again.
"Come on, let got," he says a little louder now. "You need to sleep." You know that, and you almost do. Still, you don't let go of his hand. You don't want to. And when you hear him ask, "You okay?", all of a sudden, he sounds worried.
You take a deep breath and roll on your back, stretching your muscles. He has given up on getting his hand back, and somehow, you end up on your other side, with him crouching in front of you, blocking out the flickering light from the TV. He wouldn't normally do that, like you wouldn't do that normally, either. Holding on to him that stubbornly, that is. Right now, though… oh hell, you don't know.
"Seriously, what's wrong?" he insists. "You're starting to freak me out."
Finally, you open your eyes, and Reid's face is close. So very close. The greenish light gleams in his eyes which are huge and concerned and only a little red from the previous hours of sleep. Stupid, deranged, exhausted as you are, you reach out for him with the hand that still holds his. He doesn't draw back.
It shouldn't freak him out to find you here. It doesn't happen for the first time, after all. More often than not, it is the other way around, true, but sometimes, you come crashing here, too. And somehow, Reid always knows when you do. Maybe he hears it. Maybe he senses it. But you know for a fact that he notices you sleeping here – because every morning, you awake with a pillow and a blanket.
Reid doesn't have them stored away somewhere where you could get them easily. He keeps them in the closet in his bedroom and you would have to risk to wake him up if you would try to do so. So you don't and you could live with it that way. But still, you awake with them in the morning, because this is just what Reid does.
For you.
"Can't I come over and take a nap without freaking you out?" you murmur, seeing the answer already in his eyes, in the way he looks at you in concern and disbelief. Of course you could, maybe, but you don't and you cannot do it because you and him never worked that way. It takes tragedies and wandering minds and psychos for him to come to you and for you to come to him, and, "Clooney got in a fight," you tell him.
His brows furrow immediately, and what has been a mixture of concern and disbelief is now pure worry, full force. "Is he alright?" he asks, and then, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, 'm fine," you mumble. Worried about your boy but physically unharmed.
"What happened?" he wants to know, voice hushed and words soft, and suddenly, it is not only you who is holding his hand. He holds yours as well.
And as you notice that his other hand rests on the edge of the couch to hold him upright, so close to your face, you tell him what happened. You tell him how you took Clooney out for a walk after you got home, how it was already pretty dark and how he was twitchy with energy. You tell him how you came across another jogger with his dog, how something you don't even know went terribly wrong and how the dogs ended up locking jaws. How you rushed to the next possible veterinarian and how, after everything that happened tonight, you eventually came here.
"They kept him overnight," you finish tiredly, staring at his blunt fingernails on the hand you are not holding while moving your fingers slightly in his grip. "If he makes it, he'll make it. If he doesn't, he won't." It is as simple as that. It makes you nervous, because it is either or, nothing in between. "They wouldn't let me wait there, told me to go home." You didn't exactly obey to that, you think, but you chose the closest thing next, after you made a little detour to get changed. That goes unsaid. "I have to wait 'till eight o'clock before I can take him home."
If you can take him home. If he makes it through the night.
Reid is silent for a moment or two. The inner edges of his lips are pulled between his teeth, making them look thin even though they are kissably full. You stretch a finger and it touches his chin. He looks down at it, lowers his head, but he doesn't seem to be bothered by it. Neither by your fingers still wrapped around his.
"If you can, get some sleep," he says. And maybe he knows that, by now, it doesn't take much for you to do so anymore. "We'll talk about that in the morning. I'll wake you up in time, alright?"
"'right," you breathe, eyes sliding shut again. Reid removes his hand from your grasp and it feels like he pulls the covers a little higher, tucking you in like a child. A firm, gentle stroke over your shoulder, a whispered "Good night" and some rustling in front of you, and then it is dark and silent and you feel yourself drowning in a dreamless sleep, and it is easier to think that it is going to be okay when you lie here, still holding Reid's warmth in your hand.
It reminds you of something, you think. You remember feeling this bodily heaviness sometime in the past, getting practically pressed into the mattress beneath you. God, when was that? It seems ages ago, even though not even half a year passed since then.
You were somewhere in Ohio to chase a guy who burned the houses of middle-aged men that resembled his former employer (whom he blamed for losing everything after getting fired). You don't know why it had to be at a time where convention after convention took place in the town you were investigating. But it turned out that it was nearly impossible to find a hotel you could stay in. Every single room was booked and overbooked and in the end you could consider yourself lucky that you got three rooms at last.
In three different hotels.
Two of them single rooms.
But at least, each with a queen-size bed. And of course it were JJ and Emily as the girls and you and Reid as the boys who shared not just rooms but beds as well. The unit chief and the senior profiler deserved at least separate beds to sleep in. And it isn't like this would have ever been a problem for you. To share beds with Reid.
Because with all trust issues you have, all experiences you made and all the burdens you carry around with you… well, over the years you have come to think that, if it is going to work with someone (sharing permanently, trusting implicitly), that someone can only and will have to be Reid.
So when you finally made it to one of said rooms and closed the door behind you, you made a straight line for the bed, stiff-legged and with sore feet, and simply plopped onto the mattress, so hard that it made the bed frame creak. And Reid groan.
Reid who was lying beside you on his belly, face turned away from you, arms shoved under his pillow.
The only light was shining from a lamp on the bedside table next to Reid. Every bone in your body ached as you heaved yourself from your stomach to your back, still fully clothed, even with your shoes on, and somehow you ended up that sprawled out that your arm rested kind of half across Reid's shoulders. It wasn't urgent for your team to find a hotel, but after two days without sleep you really needed to get some rest.
"I'm home, darling," you muttered grinningly, and as you heard him hum grumpily next to you you snorted, a bubbling chuckle in the back of your throat that would have been a hearty laugh in any other case. Moving your arm a little as if you would try to rub his stiff neck with your wrist, you turned your head a little more in his direction. "Been quite some time, righ'?"
You meant, of course, that it was quite some time since you last had to share beds on a case and Reid, of course, understood.
"Yeah, and you still haven't learned to get changed before you come to bed," he mumbled. And then you really felt his hand on your hip how it tried to shove you away and out of bed.
You actually gave a laugh at that, because something in that statement always strikes you as odd (as it did back then) but you were completely worn out so you didn't argue. You toed off your boots and your socks, shook off your jacket and peeled off your shirt, and after quite some struggle with your pants you crawled under the blanket in nothing but your shorts. "Feelin' better?"
"Uh-huh, terrific," he murmured and moved a little, not to make room for you but to get comfortable. The days where he crept to the edge of the bed and almost fell over have long since passed.
"Great." The worst part of sharing beds this size is probably that you often have to share blankets as well. This is not always bad because, just like then, the space beneath it can already be pleasantly preheated. But Reid (when completely beat) has a nasty habit. "Try not to steal all the blanket to yourself."
He is a blanket hogger.
"Only if you don't start snoring," he sayd with muffled words. You would have liked to see his face, you think.
"Then you don't start kicking me."
"Then don't occupy all the bed as your own."
You didn't reply to that at first and simply moved your leg over to Reid's side, and Reid gave a warning tug at the blanket. He tugged a little harder after a few moments of silence and had almost the whole blanket pulled to him before you laughed and left his space bubble and surrendered.
"Deal! Deal, deal, deal," you said, sighing the last word, and got back what was rightfully yours (your half of the blanket). Surely, there would have been more blankets somewhere in the closets, but you were too tired to care and it wasn't really all that bad.
Reid didn't ask if he should turn off the light and you didn't have to say that no, it's fine. You simply wished each other good night and he shifted so that his back was facing you. You did the same, turning your back towards him, and it felt quite nice to feel Reid's warmth flooding your skin. And you really cannot remember the last time you actually could bear having someone beside you in bed without seeing them. Before Reid, that is.
And this is how and when your dream began.
It was remarkably unspectacular for a dream, but maybe just what you needed at that time. And you cannot say what happened, because, since it was a dream, you forgot almost everything, of course. But the important parts seem to come back to you from time to time and you don't remember how you turned over again but you do remember that, somehow, your arm snuck around Reid's waist and you ended up spooning him from behind like there was no tomorrow.
He held your hand, you know. He threaded his fingers with your own and pulled your arm around him tighter, and in the end you were lying half upon him with him half beneath you, and his skin grew hot with your breath against his nape.
There was nothing sexual about it. One of your legs was lying between his, but it was sleeping in the most innocent of ways, more intimate than anything, and if it would be to have happened for real, you think you might have crushed him with your weight. But since it was only a dream and your thumb never stroked up and down the space above Reid's navel in lazy movements for real, it was probably okay to feel heavy and relaxed content with him.
And anyway, it was just a dream. No harm done. You are sure it was just a dream. Because when you awoke the other morning, you were lying on your stomach, facing the opposite direction with your arm that (in your dream) was not curled around Reid now dangling over the edge of the bed. Reid himself was already taking a shower and getting ready for the day, and you are sure that it was only a dream.
Despite the fact that you have seen Reid unconsciously touch his abdomen where (in your dream) your thumb, while still and always holding his hand, drew patterns on his skin.
You never talked about it (because it was only a dream, so of course you didn't talk about it), but it is sort of nice to be able to think about something like that instead of worrying about Clooney nonstop. It is a fact that you cannot do anything for him right now, that he has to make it on his own, and it is unnerving.
It drives you up the wall. It makes you restless from within.
Perhaps it is stupid to get that worked up because of a pet dog. But then again, it is about your boy, isn't it? You got him when he was only just a pup, barely able to leave the bitch that bore him. The weakest of his litter, he didn't stand a chance there and you took him and raised him ever since, raising him even now. But apparently you haven't done a good job, for you now have to fear that his folly of youth might cost too much.
And it is not even his youth anymore, he isn't all that young anymore. He should know better by now, silly thing. Silly like his daddy, right? To get worked up over something… something so…
Bacon.
What? You can smell bacon. Fried eggs, too. What the hell? What kind of dream does this become? You take a deep breath and the scent only becomes more intense, the taste almost ghosting over your tongue.
How frustrating. Dreaming of Reid without really touching him and then dreaming of bacon and eggs and finding yourself unable to reach out for it because you cannot move. The smell of coffee only makes it worse, or at least you think it makes it worst. At first.
But actually, it makes you realize that you are not dreaming anymore, in fact not even sleeping by now. The appetizing smell of breakfast is real. You hear the clicking of a spoon against a mug and the creak of a chair being occupied. Pulling your head out from under the pillow, you blink and jerk yourself to awareness as you notice that the bright light around you doesn't come from one too many lamps.
It is daylight.
"What – "
The question dies on your tongue and you blink into early sunshine. Reid's apartment doesn't have curtains in the living room to block it out, and judging by it, it must be almost ten in the morning.
You put your phone and your wallet on the coffee table in front of you before you kind of passed out on Reid's couch. The wallet is gone but the phone is still there, and as you grab it to check the time you can see that you have been right. The display says 09:37.
This is not possible, you think. You set the alarm for 7 o'clock, long before you arrived at Reid's.
Standing up too fast, blood rushes to your feet and makes you feel dizzy. You take a teetering step, frustrated because you don't know what is going on, and you see Reid sitting on the kitchen table between the kitchenette and the living room, a cup of coffee in his hand.
"Reid?"
Your voice sounds hoarse and accusing and you clear your throat to wake yourself up a little more. You feel rested but you sure could use a few more hours of sleep.
"Oh, good morning," he says surprised after swallowing the sip he just took.
"Good morning? What's going on, man, what time is it?" you ask, rubbing your face.
"It's, ah…" He looks down at his wristwatch sitting over his sleeve. He is already fully dressed in a white shirt with tiny black dots and dark gray slacks, and he looks so awake as if he has been up for hours already. "It's about half past 9."
"What?" So your phone didn't lie.
He sets his mug down as you stare at him, rubbing his arm uncomfortably. "I made breakfast," he says a little unsure, pointing with a nod at the stove where a pan holds said fried eggs and some bacon. "I was about to wake you up."
"What the hell, Reid?" You sound upset and, if you would have to be honest, you are upset. "Why didn't you wake me up, if you've got the time to make fucking breakfast, man? I told you I had to get Clooney at eight and you said you would wake me. This is important, man!"
Reid swallows and it makes you almost instantly feel bad, and you turn away because you don't want to feel bad right now. You have a right to be angry, because he said he would wake you and he didn't and your alarm didn't go off even though you set it which must mean what Reid turned it off. So nobody informed you about how your boy is and you didn't inform anyone that you would come later and, "Fuck!," you bark as you stomp out of the living room to get your shoes in the corridor.
"Morgan!," Reid calls after you but you don't listen. Dammit. "Morgan… please, come on…"
"No, Reid, this – " You turn around, at a loss for words, and you cannot believe that Reid, Reid of all people, let this happen. "Don't tell me you're gonna do something when you – God, you made breakfast? You were supposed to wake me up when you tell me – "
"I know and I was!," he says. He looks as if he wants to stand up but he doesn't and you can only guess what it is that keeps him in place now. "I was about to do that but – "
And with his 'but' you stop listening. Patting your pockets, you check if everything is in place. You got your phone, but your wallet is still missing. Did it fall off the table after all? You look beneath it and your spine cracks and you look around the table, too, but there is nothing.
"Have you seen my wallet, Kid? I need it, I gotta go," you say as you make a few steps back to the kitchen. Reid doesn't move and he doesn't have to. You wallet lies right next to him on the dining table, opened, with a tiny white card just sticking out of its usual place.
The business card of the vet.
"I really was about to wake you," he says, almost defending himself. "I'm sorry if you feel like I've decided over your head but I thought there was no reason to wake you sooner."
"What, why not?" you inquire, because he know, you told him you would go to get Clooney around eight in the morning. You feel a headache starting behind your eyes.
"I, you know, I'm sorry if I overstepped a border or something, I know this is kind of private and non of my business and I didn't want to be nosey or anything, I just – " He raises a shoulder helplessly. " – I wanted to help you somehow, I guess."
"Help me?"
He stuffs the card back into place and hands you your wallet. You take it without any hint of anger, because it somehow vanished as soon as it came and ended up in smoke. It is the effect Reid always has on you.
"I called the vet," he says. "I'm sorry, I know it has nothing to do with me and I'm sorry, I just wanted, I, I asked about his condition. Clooney's," he clarifies, and you step closer and he talks faster. "He took the narcotics well and he's gonna be alright, they said, and you might want to be a little careful that he won't frolic around too much with the stitches and all, of course, but he's gonna be fine."
For a moment, it is completely silent around you. You can see Reid swallow again and you can feel yourself swallow, too, as you let sink in what he just told you.
"How do you know that? You're not even allowed to get any information," you reply because you don't know what else to say.
"I'm a doctor," is all he answers, but of course, that isn't a reason at all. "You're not mad, right?" Uncertainty makes his voice slightly wavering.
And how could you be mad at him, when he lifted such a heavy burden with such ease, just by doing what he did and saying what he said? What would you have done, if you went there just to be told that you boy didn't make it?
"You can take him home around ten, maybe a little later," he offers. "As I said, I was about to wake you."
Your body reacts faster than your mind, and before you know it, you have closed the gap between you and him and your hand found his hair and you press your face into the crook of his neck. It is all kinds of awkward because you have to bend down in an odd angle and one hand rests on the back of his chair. A strange hug. But you feel like you have found your balance again for the first time since yesterday evening.
"Thank you," you breathe into his locks, smelling his shampoo before the food, feeling the heat radiating from him. Thank you, because you really were afraid of losing your boy.
Reid puts his hand on your arm somewhere near the elbow, the only part he can reach without twisting his limbs all that awkwardly. "It's alright," he murmurs, his voice muffled because of your shoulder pressed against his lips. His hand pats you, strokes you, then stills completely after a while.
You should pull away now, Derek, because this slowly begins to border the strange part of awkwardness, where it gets uncomfortable. But you are so filled with the simplest of relief that you seem to be miles away from any kind of awkwardness.
When you finally start removing yourself from him, it is probably just because you got to get your boy home. Your hand moves from the back of his head down to his neck and you want to press a quick kiss to his ear, not even a peck, really. But you kind of don't get it right and you miss his ear and suddenly, the kiss lands on his temple. And there is a second kiss (you have no clue were that came from) and you press it to the corner of his mouth without thinking. His lips are slightly parted and warm coffee flavor greets you there. It catches both of you off guard.
It wasn't meant to be like that and it is sort of ridiculous that a tiny peck on the corner of his mouth seems so much more intimate than many a kiss you shared with a girl where it was obvious which direction it would take from there on. This here is nothing, not even elementary school, but it brings you closer to him than you ever have been with most of the girls that aren't even acquaintances anymore today.
Get a grip, man, for crying out loud!
Pulling away, your fingers glide through his curls and you cannot bring yourself to really meet his eyes. Not that there would be much to meet, anyway – Reid is looking at the table before him, one hand still gripping the mug, the other one lying limply next to it.
You have no time to explain, though, no time to find some flimsy excuses for him or yourself. Your boy is waiting. Grabbing your wallet, you bid your goodbye as lightheartedly as possible, saying "thank you", saying "gotta go", and finally actually taking your leave. You can think about it when everything is back to normal again. For now, you have to store it away in your mind.
"What about your breakfast?" Reid calls after you, but without any attempt to see you to the door. He wouldn't be fast enough anyway, for you are already halfway gone.
"Another time, Kid, thanks. I gotta get going," you call back. Wallet, phone, car keys, and you all but jump into your boots, with an energy you didn't know could be evoked just by hearing that your dog is alright or at least going to be.
"Imma give you a call when we get home, yeah?" You open the door and it closes behind you without any response from Reid. He will understand, though, you are sure of that. After all, he knows how much that dog means to you, even more so than you do, apparently.
He will understand your relief, the hurry you are in.
But nevertheless, you don't call him, not once all weekend, and when you see each other on Monday again, maybe the awkwardness you are finally aware of will be, at last, nothing but an imagination, a shadow of a memory that has never been more than a pale ghost in the first place. And when another case is announced and Hotch tells you it is "Wheels up in ten", every thought of it whatsoever will vanish.
You don't talk about the kiss, the almost-kiss, the thing that happened what seems a long time ago. It becomes a distant memory, a dream like the one where you are holding Reid, a joke, and you don't know whether to be glad or frustrated. Whenever there is this certain spark lighting up Reid's eyes, he will turn away before you can recognize it for what it actually really truly is.
Didn't you want to be straightforward the next time, because you know, you hope, you wish that he is just waiting for it?
So, yeah. Kind of rushed, wasn't it?
Part two of three is done, one more part to go. We'll have to see whether our pretties will be able to face the ugly truth (ugly, please, I really think that would be great) or they will continue tip-toeing around each other like that. Let's hope for the best with those guys.
Oh, and I really had to ask a friend about Morgan's whereabouts after he isn't unit chief anymore. I needed to know whether he stays in his own office or goes back to the bull pen. And when I got my answer I was kind of disappointed. Am I the only one who is a little sad that he didn't go back? I've hoped for something differend, I guess. But oh well, that's what fandoms are for, right?
A big thank you to all of you who took their time and left a review. As always, they really made my day! =D
Hope to see you soon!
Bluey