[cm fic] occasion, MILD R, R/M
Title: Occasion.
Pairing: Reid/Morgan.
Rating: mild, mild R.
AN: some strange CM ficcage, to feel out my reclaimed desire to write.
invitation;
and Morgan will watch Reid fumble expertly with his door key, his head down and his elbow dug into the frame. Morgan will slump sideways against the wall there, pretend that this is it, that his hands don’t reach out to touch because they don’t want, need to. He’ll watch light bounce off the neighbour’s wall, but won’t see it. He’ll play with his buckle, scratch his neck, fold and refold his arms. They’re one case down, paperwork reassigned; he’s got time to wait this out. They’ve got tonight.
and Morgan will ask, “Am I coming in?” even if it’s evident, eventual.
Reid will say, “If you want to. Sure,” because they’re circling [circling for months now].
They’re not sure what they’ve found.
date, time, place;
then Reid will be hunched in his chair, fiddling with his tie, pulling it too long and twisting it short. He’ll ignore Morgan’s knee, there, the pressure of it, the false promise. They won’t talk work, and Reid won’t eat and Morgan will lounge back in his best suit, sipping wine and breaking bread. He’ll break any vantage Reid thought he had, just by moving Reid’s hand from his collar, telling him it’s fine and making fine sound better.
then Reid will mumble, “Why did you bring me here?” unsure if he should ask, or if he wants to. Unsure that ‘here’ means the restaurant.
Morgan will tell him, “You didn’t have to come,” and that’s the problem.
They’re mixing their signals, getting lost.
phone;
though it will be too late to call, and three dead bodies past small talk; though he’s only telling Reid what he can read in his text books, Morgan will dial the number anyway. He’ll twist the cord around his elbow anxiously, chanting under his breath, [pick up, pick up, come on kid] until Reid’s sleepy, grumbly groan snakes through the receiver. Morgan will want to tell him too many things, and talk about the weather instead.
though Morgan will repeat, “So, you’re okay,” with conviction, it’s really that he’s craving it to be so.
Reid will miss the point, say, “Yeah, I’m stronger than you think,” which is funny.
Morgan hadn’t been thinking much at all.
r.s.v.p;
so Reid will sit at Hotch’s desk, clasp his hands together and let his hair fall down against his face. He’ll hear Hotch’s words [slow and monotone] and he’ll feel the disappointment [sharp and scarring]. Reid will plot, graph and store every last piece away for later, he will learn every lesson; he will have nothing to say at the end of it. He’ll have no excuses. He tried to save Morgan, and Morgan never needed saving.
so Reid will say, “Don’t lecture me,” pushing Morgan, pushing and pushing as ineffective as it might be. “Don’t tell me I didn’t do my job.”
Morgan will tell him, “You didn’t,” because it’s true and that’s what he does, truth, but he’ll also add, “but that’s okay.”
They’ll stand together in the dark, barely a shadow between them.
b.y.o
but they’ll fuck on the sofa chair in Morgan’s apartment, not quite making the distance to the bedroom. Not quite fucking, too slow and gentle and heavy for that. Reid will sink right down and hold, throw his head back, exposed and open and willing; Morgan will push up, move in, mouth and hands and teeth taking, finally taking. It will be give and take and yes and no; a question and an answer. It will be somewhere, they’ll be going places.
but Morgan will take the hit, he’ll say, “This birthday thing, for Rossi. You and me, we should …” a hand roaming the length of Reid’s thigh, down, up again, not realizing.
Reid will finish the thought with, “Go together,” pressing his forehead to Morgan’s shoulder, slick slide of sweat.
Here they are: two loose threads, looping in and catching.
Pairing: Reid/Morgan.
Rating: mild, mild R.
AN: some strange CM ficcage, to feel out my reclaimed desire to write.
invitation;
and Morgan will watch Reid fumble expertly with his door key, his head down and his elbow dug into the frame. Morgan will slump sideways against the wall there, pretend that this is it, that his hands don’t reach out to touch because they don’t want, need to. He’ll watch light bounce off the neighbour’s wall, but won’t see it. He’ll play with his buckle, scratch his neck, fold and refold his arms. They’re one case down, paperwork reassigned; he’s got time to wait this out. They’ve got tonight.
and Morgan will ask, “Am I coming in?” even if it’s evident, eventual.
Reid will say, “If you want to. Sure,” because they’re circling [circling for months now].
They’re not sure what they’ve found.
date, time, place;
then Reid will be hunched in his chair, fiddling with his tie, pulling it too long and twisting it short. He’ll ignore Morgan’s knee, there, the pressure of it, the false promise. They won’t talk work, and Reid won’t eat and Morgan will lounge back in his best suit, sipping wine and breaking bread. He’ll break any vantage Reid thought he had, just by moving Reid’s hand from his collar, telling him it’s fine and making fine sound better.
then Reid will mumble, “Why did you bring me here?” unsure if he should ask, or if he wants to. Unsure that ‘here’ means the restaurant.
Morgan will tell him, “You didn’t have to come,” and that’s the problem.
They’re mixing their signals, getting lost.
phone;
though it will be too late to call, and three dead bodies past small talk; though he’s only telling Reid what he can read in his text books, Morgan will dial the number anyway. He’ll twist the cord around his elbow anxiously, chanting under his breath, [pick up, pick up, come on kid] until Reid’s sleepy, grumbly groan snakes through the receiver. Morgan will want to tell him too many things, and talk about the weather instead.
though Morgan will repeat, “So, you’re okay,” with conviction, it’s really that he’s craving it to be so.
Reid will miss the point, say, “Yeah, I’m stronger than you think,” which is funny.
Morgan hadn’t been thinking much at all.
r.s.v.p;
so Reid will sit at Hotch’s desk, clasp his hands together and let his hair fall down against his face. He’ll hear Hotch’s words [slow and monotone] and he’ll feel the disappointment [sharp and scarring]. Reid will plot, graph and store every last piece away for later, he will learn every lesson; he will have nothing to say at the end of it. He’ll have no excuses. He tried to save Morgan, and Morgan never needed saving.
so Reid will say, “Don’t lecture me,” pushing Morgan, pushing and pushing as ineffective as it might be. “Don’t tell me I didn’t do my job.”
Morgan will tell him, “You didn’t,” because it’s true and that’s what he does, truth, but he’ll also add, “but that’s okay.”
They’ll stand together in the dark, barely a shadow between them.
b.y.o
but they’ll fuck on the sofa chair in Morgan’s apartment, not quite making the distance to the bedroom. Not quite fucking, too slow and gentle and heavy for that. Reid will sink right down and hold, throw his head back, exposed and open and willing; Morgan will push up, move in, mouth and hands and teeth taking, finally taking. It will be give and take and yes and no; a question and an answer. It will be somewhere, they’ll be going places.
but Morgan will take the hit, he’ll say, “This birthday thing, for Rossi. You and me, we should …” a hand roaming the length of Reid’s thigh, down, up again, not realizing.
Reid will finish the thought with, “Go together,” pressing his forehead to Morgan’s shoulder, slick slide of sweat.
Here they are: two loose threads, looping in and catching.