[criminal minds fic] Down to your bones, 15+
Title: Down to your bones.
Author: mijmeraar
Rating: 15+
Pairing: Reid/Morgan
AN: First piece for the fandom. Comments and criticism are adored.
“This one,” Reid barely touches skin as he traces a finger along the scar on Morgan’s hand; just light brushes, gentle, as if it is fragile, as if it still hurts. Moving from the base of Morgan’s thumb and around to meet his palm, Reid’s wary touch moves back and forth, back and forth, his eyes fixed, soaking it in.
The room falls away, walls and boards and telephones, strained voices of their co-workers. They leave, forgotten, new cases, old unsubs; eternal victims and lasting pain. Instead there’s something charged that lures them, something intense, and Morgan knows it’s coursing through Reid, from Reid, he feels it in his throat.
“Knife wound,” he croaks, coughs, scratches at his head. Morgan’s feeling trapped, and he kind of likes it, kind of likes the nerve it took for Reid to do that. “I uh, stole a knife. From the bad guy.”
Reid nods, touches it again, like a whisper. It’s been a while since Morgan has felt this, felt the gentle touch of another, and he isn’t scared or worried that it is Reid, just curious as to why. Reid finally looks up, into Morgan’s eyes, says “That was noble of you.” as if he’s been assigned to.
Morgan laughs, “I guess so,” and Reid’s own lips curl up into that small familiar smile.
“Or incredibly stupid.”
Morgan swats at Reid half heartedly, their hands now pulled apart. It feels, instead, like they’ve brought together two pieces of a puzzle, Morgan still trying to figure out what the finished picture’s meant to be.
*
“This one,” Reid’s propped up on a desk and Morgan’s bent down, leant against it, short sleeves climbing up his arms, revealing another scar. It’s small, circular, faded over time, and when Reid moves his finger round it, round again, his touch is less gentle, less afraid. Morgan looks over, distracted with his work, but Reid’s looking at him, straight though him, and he surrenders.
“Bullet,” Morgan says, straight up, not surprised when Reid’s expression remains still. He stares right on, no sympathy, no shock, just stares and stares until Morgan breaks, until Morgan just wants to talk, “During my undercover stint. We had some … misunderstandings.”
“Does that mean you were compromised?” Reid asks, voice low, words firm, all text book.
“You could say that. You could also say that an agent fresh out of training was a little rusty with his .45.”
Reid makes a small sound in the back of his throat, which seems to turn from disbelief to ire. His eyes move back to the wound, his hand lingering in the air above it, as if he’s trying to read it, as if he’s trying to learn, “Impaled upon your own sword.”
“Shot by a jackass.”
Reid scoffs, dares to tough it again, and Morgan wouldn’t move if the desk caught fire.
“It adds character.”
“You saying I lack character?”
“No. Not you.”
Morgan knows there are scars on Reid, too; he just can’t see to touch them.
*
“This one,” Reid’s fingers pressed against a scar on Morgan’s neck and his breath is hot, laced with beer, burning its own marks on Morgan’s skin. It’s the annual Christmas party and they’re alone in some unknown corridor and Morgan’s been here plenty, sure, but he never planned to take Reid along for the ride.
“Dog scratched me,” Morgan grabs Reid’s bony wrists, holds them still, Reid looking on with blurry, shiny eyes. Morgan’s not so sure if Reid’s smelt beer before, let alone consumed it, and he’s not so sure he’s okay with this, with what this means, if Reid’s going to regret it come morning.
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“Wasn’t my dog. Look,” Morgan lightly shakes him, “Reid. What’s going on with you, man?”
“Right now? Right now I have approximately four standard glasses of beer coursing through my bloodstream, consequently settling me into a state of euphoria. This means I will say things that aren’t necessarily appropriate or … or that I wasn’t brave enough to say before. Before the beer.” Reid stumbles a little, looks to Morgan guiltily, but only says, “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Don’t do this, Reid.”
“I just want to know you.” Reid says plainly, sounding as if he has suddenly been sobered, his mouth set in a firm line. If Morgan didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that Reid was a petulant child; demanding and inflexible. Instead, he sees need. Hope. Spencer.
“How well?”
They kiss, slow, Morgan edging Reid up against the wall, releasing his hands so that he can thread them up and behind Morgan’s neck. Morgan cups Reid’s jaw, deepens the kiss, slides their bodies real close, finds their groove.
The corridor is shadowed, private, and too dark for prying eyes. Still. Morgan knows he’s seeing things for the very first time.
*
“This one,” Morgan is spread eagled, spent, skin stark against the dirty white sheets of his bed. Reid is propped above him, tracing a small scar along his inner thigh, head rested on Morgan’s knee. It’s a quiet moment, moonlight pooling through the window, like waves against Reid’s fair and slender frame; he looks like a god, but Morgan won’t say so.
“Came off my bike when I was ten.”
“Did you cry?” Reid asks, still tracing along it; index, middle, and ring fingers, one after the other. Morgan knows he’s still being studied, that Reid wants to be as good with Morgan as he is with everything else. He knows that Reid will do his best, and still not be satisfied, still expect more from himself, more for Morgan.
Morgan sits up, eyes meeting Reid’s, Reid pausing, waiting patiently for something to happen. Morgan kisses him gently; just the light graze of lips, then grabs him by the shoulders and coerces him down. Onto the mattress and taking the lead.
“This one,” Morgan says, hand on Reid’s chest, other behind his head and laced through his hair. He keeps his hand there, over Reid’s heart, stares on and on and doesn’t move, doesn’t relent. Reid looks away, chest heaving, looks back, lips thin.
“Too many stories,” Reid says, as if he has settled on that and it ends there. Morgan doesn’t fight back a smile.
“Just one. One for now.”
Reid takes a wary hand, clasps it around Morgan’s shoulder. He takes the other, places it on the small of Morgan’s back. He moves, slightly, moves so they’re pressed together just right, stitched together like the skin of an old scar, lasting.
“You.”
-end-
Author: mijmeraar
Rating: 15+
Pairing: Reid/Morgan
AN: First piece for the fandom. Comments and criticism are adored.
“This one,” Reid barely touches skin as he traces a finger along the scar on Morgan’s hand; just light brushes, gentle, as if it is fragile, as if it still hurts. Moving from the base of Morgan’s thumb and around to meet his palm, Reid’s wary touch moves back and forth, back and forth, his eyes fixed, soaking it in.
The room falls away, walls and boards and telephones, strained voices of their co-workers. They leave, forgotten, new cases, old unsubs; eternal victims and lasting pain. Instead there’s something charged that lures them, something intense, and Morgan knows it’s coursing through Reid, from Reid, he feels it in his throat.
“Knife wound,” he croaks, coughs, scratches at his head. Morgan’s feeling trapped, and he kind of likes it, kind of likes the nerve it took for Reid to do that. “I uh, stole a knife. From the bad guy.”
Reid nods, touches it again, like a whisper. It’s been a while since Morgan has felt this, felt the gentle touch of another, and he isn’t scared or worried that it is Reid, just curious as to why. Reid finally looks up, into Morgan’s eyes, says “That was noble of you.” as if he’s been assigned to.
Morgan laughs, “I guess so,” and Reid’s own lips curl up into that small familiar smile.
“Or incredibly stupid.”
Morgan swats at Reid half heartedly, their hands now pulled apart. It feels, instead, like they’ve brought together two pieces of a puzzle, Morgan still trying to figure out what the finished picture’s meant to be.
*
“This one,” Reid’s propped up on a desk and Morgan’s bent down, leant against it, short sleeves climbing up his arms, revealing another scar. It’s small, circular, faded over time, and when Reid moves his finger round it, round again, his touch is less gentle, less afraid. Morgan looks over, distracted with his work, but Reid’s looking at him, straight though him, and he surrenders.
“Bullet,” Morgan says, straight up, not surprised when Reid’s expression remains still. He stares right on, no sympathy, no shock, just stares and stares until Morgan breaks, until Morgan just wants to talk, “During my undercover stint. We had some … misunderstandings.”
“Does that mean you were compromised?” Reid asks, voice low, words firm, all text book.
“You could say that. You could also say that an agent fresh out of training was a little rusty with his .45.”
Reid makes a small sound in the back of his throat, which seems to turn from disbelief to ire. His eyes move back to the wound, his hand lingering in the air above it, as if he’s trying to read it, as if he’s trying to learn, “Impaled upon your own sword.”
“Shot by a jackass.”
Reid scoffs, dares to tough it again, and Morgan wouldn’t move if the desk caught fire.
“It adds character.”
“You saying I lack character?”
“No. Not you.”
Morgan knows there are scars on Reid, too; he just can’t see to touch them.
*
“This one,” Reid’s fingers pressed against a scar on Morgan’s neck and his breath is hot, laced with beer, burning its own marks on Morgan’s skin. It’s the annual Christmas party and they’re alone in some unknown corridor and Morgan’s been here plenty, sure, but he never planned to take Reid along for the ride.
“Dog scratched me,” Morgan grabs Reid’s bony wrists, holds them still, Reid looking on with blurry, shiny eyes. Morgan’s not so sure if Reid’s smelt beer before, let alone consumed it, and he’s not so sure he’s okay with this, with what this means, if Reid’s going to regret it come morning.
“I didn’t know you had a dog.”
“Wasn’t my dog. Look,” Morgan lightly shakes him, “Reid. What’s going on with you, man?”
“Right now? Right now I have approximately four standard glasses of beer coursing through my bloodstream, consequently settling me into a state of euphoria. This means I will say things that aren’t necessarily appropriate or … or that I wasn’t brave enough to say before. Before the beer.” Reid stumbles a little, looks to Morgan guiltily, but only says, “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Don’t do this, Reid.”
“I just want to know you.” Reid says plainly, sounding as if he has suddenly been sobered, his mouth set in a firm line. If Morgan didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that Reid was a petulant child; demanding and inflexible. Instead, he sees need. Hope. Spencer.
“How well?”
They kiss, slow, Morgan edging Reid up against the wall, releasing his hands so that he can thread them up and behind Morgan’s neck. Morgan cups Reid’s jaw, deepens the kiss, slides their bodies real close, finds their groove.
The corridor is shadowed, private, and too dark for prying eyes. Still. Morgan knows he’s seeing things for the very first time.
*
“This one,” Morgan is spread eagled, spent, skin stark against the dirty white sheets of his bed. Reid is propped above him, tracing a small scar along his inner thigh, head rested on Morgan’s knee. It’s a quiet moment, moonlight pooling through the window, like waves against Reid’s fair and slender frame; he looks like a god, but Morgan won’t say so.
“Came off my bike when I was ten.”
“Did you cry?” Reid asks, still tracing along it; index, middle, and ring fingers, one after the other. Morgan knows he’s still being studied, that Reid wants to be as good with Morgan as he is with everything else. He knows that Reid will do his best, and still not be satisfied, still expect more from himself, more for Morgan.
Morgan sits up, eyes meeting Reid’s, Reid pausing, waiting patiently for something to happen. Morgan kisses him gently; just the light graze of lips, then grabs him by the shoulders and coerces him down. Onto the mattress and taking the lead.
“This one,” Morgan says, hand on Reid’s chest, other behind his head and laced through his hair. He keeps his hand there, over Reid’s heart, stares on and on and doesn’t move, doesn’t relent. Reid looks away, chest heaving, looks back, lips thin.
“Too many stories,” Reid says, as if he has settled on that and it ends there. Morgan doesn’t fight back a smile.
“Just one. One for now.”
Reid takes a wary hand, clasps it around Morgan’s shoulder. He takes the other, places it on the small of Morgan’s back. He moves, slightly, moves so they’re pressed together just right, stitched together like the skin of an old scar, lasting.
“You.”
-end-