wip meme
GOD, I AM HORRIBLE.
Snagged from verizonhorizon:
“I know you’re in there, Reid, open the damn door, let me in.” Less surprised than hesitant, Reid licks his lips but stands frozen, silent. “Reid.”
He wants to be held, comforted, the need he’s managed to bury for the last day (for a lifetime) overwhelming now that Morgan’s close enough to touch if he lets himself. Because Morgan never hesitates to curl around him when he wakes up on a bad night shaking, just murmurs nonsense words that Reid doesn’t have to work to unravel and smoothes his fingertips soothingly across the skin of his arms until he calms. Because Morgan knows that he urgently craves unhealthy food when he’s at his worst, knows that his first instinct is to shut down and just focus on functioning until the worst of whatever weight he’s carrying is finally alleviated.
Because he has to. Because he can’t function under the weight otherwise.
“Reid, baby, let me in.”
Baby.
Reid’s brought up the fact that he doesn’t think that “baby” is a proper term of affection, is too often embarrassed by how it’s used by most people- but he still can’t help the little thrill it causes when Morgan’s at his most relaxed and the term slips out, when it’s breathed damp and heated into the back of Reid’s neck.
Emily thinks, with the second act of kindness, that Agent Morgan is trying to get into her pants.
Because he’s engaging her in conversation before Jareau is offering to share coffee and Prentiss rolls off his tongue in a way that’s jarring before the two-week mark. He’s extremely- tactile, more so than most anyone she’s personally known, and while he has yet to randomly pat her head when he walks past, he circles her the way he seems to constantly circle the rest of them.
Kindness is useful to people, she’s learned the hard way; when it isn’t, the concept is forgotten.
Emily waits, emotional survival demanding a certain level of suspicion.
Riley flipped his phone open, flipped it closed. Rolled his shoulders. “I really like Jackie,” he said, finally lifting his eyes to stare at Ben with an odd intensity as he played with his phone some more. “It’s been a while since I felt that… spark… like that.” A beat, and then, quietly, “You know?”
“Washington’s the one with the wooden teeth, right?”
Poole’s got his feet up on the one clean corner of Ben’s desk, making numerous ominous facial expressions as he grades something on his laptop (“some of them don’t even how to access SSH,” he’d say in the same tone Ben would say, “they don’t know that Theodore is not the same as Franklin, they don’t know the difference!”) even as he manages to keep 90% of his focus completely on Ben. It’s impressive enough that Ben isn’t annoyed that Riley isn’t giving him his full attention.
“He didn’t have wooden teeth.” Poole cocks an eyebrow without looking up, taps a key- and makes a face at the screen that can only be described as utterly appalled. “They were hippopotamus ivory and gold,” Ben explains, not sure why it’s so important to get Poole’s attention back and abruptly not caring when Poole flicks his eyes back up, looking curious.
“So my childhood conspiracy theory that his wooden teeth were made from the cherry tree was wrong?”
“There was no cherry tree.”
Poole makes a face as he clicks something on the keyboard, and then shoots a dirty, suspicious look at the computer in his lap. “So you’re saying my grade school history was peppered with filthy, filthy lies.”
“Yes,” is all Ben can say, his attention caught by the way one sneaker bounces a few times in front of him before it drops down out of sight. It pops back up a moment later when Poole proceeds to stretch his arms over his head, groaning noisily as things crack in his shoulders and back. The computer wobbles for a moment and Ben stares at the strip of skin that appears between Poole’s shirt and his jeans. Stares some more when Riley kneads the area with two knuckles before he gets back to work.
When Ben realizes he’s still staring a full minute later, eyed glued to the inch of skin still exposed because the shirt hasn’t slipped back down, he decides to blame the fact that it’s- well, it’s been awhile.
Because twenty-something Riley Poole is not his type.
“Fine,” Jim- the captain says shortly. “I have no grasp of your survivor’s guilt or anger issues or the fact that some of these assholes clearly kicked the shit out of you when you weren’t big enough to do anything about it. In fact, tell you what. Bones is up on the ship, go chat him up.”
“I do not wish to partake in an argument with you.” He is not sure whether the brief laugh is mocking or hurt, the blending of both is too confusing, and the uncertainty notches his aggravation up further.
“You’ve been bitching at me since I caught your attention.”
Scotty wakes up with the realization that he misses the damn dog.
Aw, hell, he thinks because now he’s missing the dog? That dog?
The damn beagle that’s been the bane of his existence for almost three years? The one that tried to chew his arm off when he showed up on the transporter pad two and a half years before and shouldn’t he have been happy to be saved, really? The one that gives him the evil eye when Nyota’s not looking and then tries his damndest to squish between them and maneuver Scotty out of bed when Nyota’s asleep.
And now Scotty absently wonders if he’s flopped out in the little bed Nyota keeps for him in the corner of their quarters, napping, or if he’s following Rand through the halls the way he sometimes does.
Scotty misses that damn dog and this, somehow, is a hundred times (hell, a thousand times) more embarrassing than the pained sounds he can’t hold in when he has to clean his wound.
Pike wakes up once, mind somehow hazier than before, to voices-
“I just want to see him.”
Jim, exhausted and too aware, and Pike knows what he’s going to hear even before McCoy almost snarls, “Get the hell on that bed and let me see that goddamn hand.”
He’d grin but he can’t. So he decides to take a moment to pull together more of his strength, bring himself back. Except the world goes dark before he glimpses it again and there’s a blue shadow to his side, a lean shape standing too stiff as if unsure what to do now that he’s in sickbay and beside Pike.
Pike wants to say, “you did fine” and “it’s okay for you to be here, with us, when so many aren’t” but he can’t muster up the strength.
He tries anyway.
Spock doesn’t see the twitch of Pike's fingers on the sheets before he leaves.
The second night he tensed up again, fingers curling in the sheets as he stretched away from Uhura, making quiet needy noises until the episode simply passed.
The third night it lasted longer than before, the muscles in his back and arms locking up until she had enough and started kneading his skin. She said, “Jim” too many times, and he finally shuddered, sighed and slipped back to sleep.
If he had any memory of the episodes the next morning, he had become a far better liar than he used to be.
Logan had worked hard to escape his parents’ fame- and he had done it.
Echolls was no longer a name connected with A list murderers or empty bridges.
No, it was a great name, an ‘I’d love to be connected to that name’ name, a name people would immediately scroll through the news to find, a name that had gotten awards and been honored as one of the best in the business.
When his name popped up now in public, people tended to respond with a lot of respect.
Veronica hadn’t used his name when she’d been gone, had switched back to Mars because it had been easier to ignore the pressure on her heart if she ignored anything that could make it worse. So she had ignored her married last name with the same intensity that she had ignored the sight of brown-haired little girls standing with overprotective fathers.
And now she was using the name again, was wrapping herself up in it because she was scared shitless and she had no idea if she was going to wind up a widow.
“There’s, um…” She hated it, the way her voice was shaking, but Shane’s stare had become a bit wary and that made it worse. “Logan has, um, marks- he has, uh, marks on his arm…” The wariness disappeared, her friend’s eyes going sort of blank, and she had to swallow, force the words out. “I just took his shirt off, you know, because he puked all over himself, and, um… um, they’re in the crook of his elbow, and they’re round, sort of, and they’re really- I mean, they look neat, which is weird, right… and…”
There wasn’t anything to read on Shane’s face, she didn’t even go pale- she just stared back, completely still.
“I hoped maybe I was wrong but they really looked like…” A crack of something, a twitch of the muscles around Shane’s mouth, and Alice looked away, unable to bear meeting the gaze when it opened for just a second. “They looked like cigarette burns, you know?”
It was stupid, the question at the end, and she bit her lip immediately, horrified at the wording.
Snagged from verizonhorizon:
“I know you’re in there, Reid, open the damn door, let me in.” Less surprised than hesitant, Reid licks his lips but stands frozen, silent. “Reid.”
He wants to be held, comforted, the need he’s managed to bury for the last day (for a lifetime) overwhelming now that Morgan’s close enough to touch if he lets himself. Because Morgan never hesitates to curl around him when he wakes up on a bad night shaking, just murmurs nonsense words that Reid doesn’t have to work to unravel and smoothes his fingertips soothingly across the skin of his arms until he calms. Because Morgan knows that he urgently craves unhealthy food when he’s at his worst, knows that his first instinct is to shut down and just focus on functioning until the worst of whatever weight he’s carrying is finally alleviated.
Because he has to. Because he can’t function under the weight otherwise.
“Reid, baby, let me in.”
Baby.
Reid’s brought up the fact that he doesn’t think that “baby” is a proper term of affection, is too often embarrassed by how it’s used by most people- but he still can’t help the little thrill it causes when Morgan’s at his most relaxed and the term slips out, when it’s breathed damp and heated into the back of Reid’s neck.
Emily thinks, with the second act of kindness, that Agent Morgan is trying to get into her pants.
Because he’s engaging her in conversation before Jareau is offering to share coffee and Prentiss rolls off his tongue in a way that’s jarring before the two-week mark. He’s extremely- tactile, more so than most anyone she’s personally known, and while he has yet to randomly pat her head when he walks past, he circles her the way he seems to constantly circle the rest of them.
Kindness is useful to people, she’s learned the hard way; when it isn’t, the concept is forgotten.
Emily waits, emotional survival demanding a certain level of suspicion.
Riley flipped his phone open, flipped it closed. Rolled his shoulders. “I really like Jackie,” he said, finally lifting his eyes to stare at Ben with an odd intensity as he played with his phone some more. “It’s been a while since I felt that… spark… like that.” A beat, and then, quietly, “You know?”
“Washington’s the one with the wooden teeth, right?”
Poole’s got his feet up on the one clean corner of Ben’s desk, making numerous ominous facial expressions as he grades something on his laptop (“some of them don’t even how to access SSH,” he’d say in the same tone Ben would say, “they don’t know that Theodore is not the same as Franklin, they don’t know the difference!”) even as he manages to keep 90% of his focus completely on Ben. It’s impressive enough that Ben isn’t annoyed that Riley isn’t giving him his full attention.
“He didn’t have wooden teeth.” Poole cocks an eyebrow without looking up, taps a key- and makes a face at the screen that can only be described as utterly appalled. “They were hippopotamus ivory and gold,” Ben explains, not sure why it’s so important to get Poole’s attention back and abruptly not caring when Poole flicks his eyes back up, looking curious.
“So my childhood conspiracy theory that his wooden teeth were made from the cherry tree was wrong?”
“There was no cherry tree.”
Poole makes a face as he clicks something on the keyboard, and then shoots a dirty, suspicious look at the computer in his lap. “So you’re saying my grade school history was peppered with filthy, filthy lies.”
“Yes,” is all Ben can say, his attention caught by the way one sneaker bounces a few times in front of him before it drops down out of sight. It pops back up a moment later when Poole proceeds to stretch his arms over his head, groaning noisily as things crack in his shoulders and back. The computer wobbles for a moment and Ben stares at the strip of skin that appears between Poole’s shirt and his jeans. Stares some more when Riley kneads the area with two knuckles before he gets back to work.
When Ben realizes he’s still staring a full minute later, eyed glued to the inch of skin still exposed because the shirt hasn’t slipped back down, he decides to blame the fact that it’s- well, it’s been awhile.
Because twenty-something Riley Poole is not his type.
“Fine,” Jim- the captain says shortly. “I have no grasp of your survivor’s guilt or anger issues or the fact that some of these assholes clearly kicked the shit out of you when you weren’t big enough to do anything about it. In fact, tell you what. Bones is up on the ship, go chat him up.”
“I do not wish to partake in an argument with you.” He is not sure whether the brief laugh is mocking or hurt, the blending of both is too confusing, and the uncertainty notches his aggravation up further.
“You’ve been bitching at me since I caught your attention.”
Scotty wakes up with the realization that he misses the damn dog.
Aw, hell, he thinks because now he’s missing the dog? That dog?
The damn beagle that’s been the bane of his existence for almost three years? The one that tried to chew his arm off when he showed up on the transporter pad two and a half years before and shouldn’t he have been happy to be saved, really? The one that gives him the evil eye when Nyota’s not looking and then tries his damndest to squish between them and maneuver Scotty out of bed when Nyota’s asleep.
And now Scotty absently wonders if he’s flopped out in the little bed Nyota keeps for him in the corner of their quarters, napping, or if he’s following Rand through the halls the way he sometimes does.
Scotty misses that damn dog and this, somehow, is a hundred times (hell, a thousand times) more embarrassing than the pained sounds he can’t hold in when he has to clean his wound.
Pike wakes up once, mind somehow hazier than before, to voices-
“I just want to see him.”
Jim, exhausted and too aware, and Pike knows what he’s going to hear even before McCoy almost snarls, “Get the hell on that bed and let me see that goddamn hand.”
He’d grin but he can’t. So he decides to take a moment to pull together more of his strength, bring himself back. Except the world goes dark before he glimpses it again and there’s a blue shadow to his side, a lean shape standing too stiff as if unsure what to do now that he’s in sickbay and beside Pike.
Pike wants to say, “you did fine” and “it’s okay for you to be here, with us, when so many aren’t” but he can’t muster up the strength.
He tries anyway.
Spock doesn’t see the twitch of Pike's fingers on the sheets before he leaves.
The second night he tensed up again, fingers curling in the sheets as he stretched away from Uhura, making quiet needy noises until the episode simply passed.
The third night it lasted longer than before, the muscles in his back and arms locking up until she had enough and started kneading his skin. She said, “Jim” too many times, and he finally shuddered, sighed and slipped back to sleep.
If he had any memory of the episodes the next morning, he had become a far better liar than he used to be.
Logan had worked hard to escape his parents’ fame- and he had done it.
Echolls was no longer a name connected with A list murderers or empty bridges.
No, it was a great name, an ‘I’d love to be connected to that name’ name, a name people would immediately scroll through the news to find, a name that had gotten awards and been honored as one of the best in the business.
When his name popped up now in public, people tended to respond with a lot of respect.
Veronica hadn’t used his name when she’d been gone, had switched back to Mars because it had been easier to ignore the pressure on her heart if she ignored anything that could make it worse. So she had ignored her married last name with the same intensity that she had ignored the sight of brown-haired little girls standing with overprotective fathers.
And now she was using the name again, was wrapping herself up in it because she was scared shitless and she had no idea if she was going to wind up a widow.
“There’s, um…” She hated it, the way her voice was shaking, but Shane’s stare had become a bit wary and that made it worse. “Logan has, um, marks- he has, uh, marks on his arm…” The wariness disappeared, her friend’s eyes going sort of blank, and she had to swallow, force the words out. “I just took his shirt off, you know, because he puked all over himself, and, um… um, they’re in the crook of his elbow, and they’re round, sort of, and they’re really- I mean, they look neat, which is weird, right… and…”
There wasn’t anything to read on Shane’s face, she didn’t even go pale- she just stared back, completely still.
“I hoped maybe I was wrong but they really looked like…” A crack of something, a twitch of the muscles around Shane’s mouth, and Alice looked away, unable to bear meeting the gaze when it opened for just a second. “They looked like cigarette burns, you know?”
It was stupid, the question at the end, and she bit her lip immediately, horrified at the wording.