Endogenous Opioid Polypeptide Compounds, PG-13/FRT
Title: Endogenous Opioid Polypeptide Compounds
Author: severity_softly
Rating: PG-13/FRT
Pairings: Morgan/Reid
Word count: ~2,000
Spoilers/warnings/author's notes: Spoilers aren't overt, but fic includes references from The Big Game/Revelations up through Elephant's Memory, and (vague-ish) references to drug use. Beta'd by the wonderful innerslytherin. :)
"In times of great stress or adversity, it's always best to keep busy, to plow your anger and your energy into something positive" - Lee Iacocca
You didn't need a genius to tell you that exercise releases endorphins in your body that make you feel good, but he tells you anyway, and in much greater detail than you'd previously understood it. "Endogenous opioid polypeptide compounds," he says over the table, "produced in the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus."
You were no slouch in school, but science and biology were never your forte, so you lift your eyebrows in interest, but you don't say anything.
"They're very similar to opiates in what they do, producing a painkilling effect and promoting a sense of well being after strenuous exercise or excitement." He looks across the table at you, his lips curling at the way you're slouched in your seat, sated after your morning run, and you know exactly why he's telling you this. You also suddenly know exactly what you intend to do about Doctor Reid's recent cravings, the ones he told you about at three o'clock this morning when he couldn't sleep.
"I made eggs while you were out," he murmurs, and puts down the crossword he probably finished in five minutes tops. He crosses the kitchen to the stove. Somehow you have a feeling you're going to learn something new about eggs today too.
The first time he hits a punching bag, he yelps and retreats, shaking his hand out with a grimace. You swallow a laugh badly and earn yourself a glare. Reid is nothing if not stubborn, however. Stubbornness he had to develop - strength and perseverance that got him through years of torment and adversity. He walks back after a moment, and you shove boxing gloves on his hands.
"These things are bigger than my head," he complains.
"Wider than your ass, maybe. Your head is pretty damn big," you tease. "Now start here," you say, moving behind him to guide his hands into guard position, ignoring his frown. You're not sure if that line between his brows is due to concentration or because he's still not sold on this idea.
"As you jab, you turn just slightly." You guide his right shoulder forward, then take his wrist and extend his arm, turning his gloved fist as you do. "You rotate with the extended hand ninety degrees, rear hand stays up to guard the jaw, right shoulder comes up to protect your chin, and then come back to your guard position after you make contact."
He leans back, just enough to brush against your chest but not enough to draw attention, and hums a thoughtful and not entirely happy noise.
"Try it," you insist, and he does.
You work on his jab for twenty minutes, until he seems frustrated, and when you're through, he takes off his gloves, rubs his wrists, and frowns deeper. "No more."
You smile. He did look ridiculous trying to throw a punch. He's awkward and too lanky to box, all reach and no power. The bright red gloves combined are probably bigger than his head, and completely useless when he tries to push his glasses back up his nose when they slip. They wind up shoved so far back on his face that his eyelashes brush the lenses, and then he can't adjust them back down without knocking them partially off his face.
He's worn your favorite pair, the ones you used to tease, years before you realized how your teasing really affected him, that they made him look like Timothy Krajcir.
You suddenly wonder when it was you decided you had a favorite pair of his glasses. Oh, you've got it bad.
You wish you could have caught it all on tape, the awkward attempt at boxing, because you aren't sure he'll ever agree to do this again. You don't want to forget the way that he had to blow his hair out of his face when it fell in his eyes because he didn't have use of his fingers and the gloves only stuck his hair to his sweat-damp forehead. There's also something empowering about teaching genius Doctor Reid something he doesn't know, and the determination that had been on his face moments before the frustration had set in had been a gorgeous thing to see.
You drape an arm over his shoulders and walk him towards the showers. If you wind up in there alone with him, you know exactly how to wipe the frown off his face. The door to the locker room has a deadbolt, after all.
The next morning, sunlight is streaming through the window and pooling against the bridge of his nose, casting a shadow across the opposite side of his face. Sometimes you still can't believe he's here in your bed, and you hate to wake him. He had a bad night, tossing and turning, and you wrapped your arms around him until he stopped shifting, but that was when he'd started talking in his sleep. You couldn't make out most of what he said, but you heard the name Tobias and the rest of it didn't sound very happy.
Still, if gets much later, it'll be too hot to run, and you don't need a genius to tell you that heat stroke is a bad thing, or that exercise can help him get a better night's sleep tonight, in addition to producing endorphins in his body. Of course, your genius is still asleep right now, so you don't have to worry about getting a science lesson just yet.
You nudge him gently and he stirs and smiles that smile at you, the one that's totally unguarded that you only ever see early in the morning and late at night.
"Hey," you whisper.
"Hi," he mumbles back, and closes his eyes again.
He's adorable when he's sleepy, and you take a moment to admire the fine lines of his face, but then nudge him again anyway. "Get up."
"It's Saturday," he complains, but twenty minutes later he's brushing his teeth and putting in his contacts.
He didn't bring anything to run in, so he rolls your sweat pants up twice and finally resorts to belting them to keep them up over his narrow hips and absent posterior. It would look ridiculous, except that your old football jersey is hanging down over it and slipping off his shoulder, and you can't help but want to lick that jut of collar bone, press him back into the bed, and forget about jogging all together.
He could easily wear the shirt he'd packed, but then he'd have nothing to sleep in tonight unless he goes home for a fresh one, or does laundry here, and you know how much he hates doing laundry. He has a closet crammed full of mismatched clothes for that very reason, and you wonder how he can live with the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes in his laundry room.
You make a mental note to do a load or two for him the next time you're at his place, a way to say thanks for the times you've found all your dishes washed and your trash taken out on mornings you ran while he stayed here.
You force yourself to stop staring at how irresistible he looks in your jersey. "Let's go."
He only makes it a little over two miles before he stops running and clutches his side. You bet if he did this with you every day, he'd probably get better, even faster, than you are. He has a good forty pounds less to carry, at least, and you know how quick he can be when he needs to be. You turn and toss him your keys, running backwards for a second, and then keep going while he walks back to the house.
You'll beat him home. You know that. But you can stretch on the porch while you wait for him, and something feels right about giving him your keys. You should make him one to keep, you think, and it's not the endorphins kicking in that make you smile.
"Morgan, why are we doing this?" he asks. It's Sunday morning, and you think maybe he would like Judo better than boxing.
You shrug and shift on the bed. "If you don't want to, we can find something else to do."
He doesn't seem to like that answer. He frowns. "You seem to want me to."
"I--" you start. You do want him to, but you're getting the impression he doesn't mean that the way you do. "Wait, Spencer, what are you thinking?"
"I'm never-- Look, I've looked like this forever. I'm not going to change. I haven't weighed over one hundred and fifty pounds in my life." He looks put out. He doesn't look like he wants to be saying this, but there's something in his expression that hints that he probably doesn't think he can hold what he's thinking in any longer. "I'll never... you know..." He gestures at your body, up and down, as if that completes his thoughts.
It takes you a moment to get it, but when you do, you tilt your head at him, studying him for a moment. Then a wide smile breaks across your face and you lean in and kiss him. "You don't know I think you're beautiful?"
Your eyes are closed, but you'd bet he's still frowning even as he kisses you back, just by the way his voice sounds when he speaks again. "I know that, but--"
"But what?" you ask, and kiss him again. "You really think this is about the way you look, pretty boy?" You shift forward and plant your hands on either side of him, pressing your chest to his as you deepen the kisses.
"What else could it be about, Morgan?"
He pulls back, leaning back on his forearms to get out of your reach, studying you. You try to remember the words he said just a few days before.
"Endogenius opoid poly-somethin' compounds?" You draw a fingertip across his jaw, then lean in and follow the line with your lips, murmuring against his skin. "I hate to see you struggle."
"I'm not str--"
"You've been hiding it better at work, but I see you when you think no one's lookin', pretty boy," you whisper, and you note that he's gone a little tense. His fingers curl in your shirt, against your chest, and you think he might push you away. You know he hates the idea that he can't handle everything on his own. He always has handled everything himself since he was little, since his dad left him to be both child and parent to his mother.
You suddenly wonder if this whole plan has been a bad idea.
"Don't make me apologize for wanting to make your life easier," you request, and that seems to do the trick because his fingers go a little slack in your shirt and his shoulders drop down again. When you pull back, there's a hint of unguarded sadness in his eyes, but he's not frowning anymore. In fact, after a moment, he offers you a slow, sad smile.
"Exercise isn't the only way."
It takes you a moment to shift gears, which isn't really unusual when you're having a conversation with Reid. You offer him a tentative smile, wondering what he's thinking. "Go on," you prompt.
His smile slowly losses the sad edge, and you know that while he might not like accepting help, he's trying to appreciate what you were trying to do anyway. "Endorphins are released in the brain during orgasm, too." His smile goes a little wicked now, and you can't help but return it in full.
Your hands are around his waist in a heartbeat, pulling him close, one slipping between him and the mattress to squeeze his ass. "Oh, beautiful boy," you murmur, and kiss him hard, then press him down to the bed. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?"
"Science is a lot like sex. Sometimes something useful comes of it, but that's not the reason we're doing it." - Richard Feynman
Author: severity_softly
Rating: PG-13/FRT
Pairings: Morgan/Reid
Word count: ~2,000
Spoilers/warnings/author's notes: Spoilers aren't overt, but fic includes references from The Big Game/Revelations up through Elephant's Memory, and (vague-ish) references to drug use. Beta'd by the wonderful innerslytherin. :)
"In times of great stress or adversity, it's always best to keep busy, to plow your anger and your energy into something positive" - Lee Iacocca
You didn't need a genius to tell you that exercise releases endorphins in your body that make you feel good, but he tells you anyway, and in much greater detail than you'd previously understood it. "Endogenous opioid polypeptide compounds," he says over the table, "produced in the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus."
You were no slouch in school, but science and biology were never your forte, so you lift your eyebrows in interest, but you don't say anything.
"They're very similar to opiates in what they do, producing a painkilling effect and promoting a sense of well being after strenuous exercise or excitement." He looks across the table at you, his lips curling at the way you're slouched in your seat, sated after your morning run, and you know exactly why he's telling you this. You also suddenly know exactly what you intend to do about Doctor Reid's recent cravings, the ones he told you about at three o'clock this morning when he couldn't sleep.
"I made eggs while you were out," he murmurs, and puts down the crossword he probably finished in five minutes tops. He crosses the kitchen to the stove. Somehow you have a feeling you're going to learn something new about eggs today too.
The first time he hits a punching bag, he yelps and retreats, shaking his hand out with a grimace. You swallow a laugh badly and earn yourself a glare. Reid is nothing if not stubborn, however. Stubbornness he had to develop - strength and perseverance that got him through years of torment and adversity. He walks back after a moment, and you shove boxing gloves on his hands.
"These things are bigger than my head," he complains.
"Wider than your ass, maybe. Your head is pretty damn big," you tease. "Now start here," you say, moving behind him to guide his hands into guard position, ignoring his frown. You're not sure if that line between his brows is due to concentration or because he's still not sold on this idea.
"As you jab, you turn just slightly." You guide his right shoulder forward, then take his wrist and extend his arm, turning his gloved fist as you do. "You rotate with the extended hand ninety degrees, rear hand stays up to guard the jaw, right shoulder comes up to protect your chin, and then come back to your guard position after you make contact."
He leans back, just enough to brush against your chest but not enough to draw attention, and hums a thoughtful and not entirely happy noise.
"Try it," you insist, and he does.
You work on his jab for twenty minutes, until he seems frustrated, and when you're through, he takes off his gloves, rubs his wrists, and frowns deeper. "No more."
You smile. He did look ridiculous trying to throw a punch. He's awkward and too lanky to box, all reach and no power. The bright red gloves combined are probably bigger than his head, and completely useless when he tries to push his glasses back up his nose when they slip. They wind up shoved so far back on his face that his eyelashes brush the lenses, and then he can't adjust them back down without knocking them partially off his face.
He's worn your favorite pair, the ones you used to tease, years before you realized how your teasing really affected him, that they made him look like Timothy Krajcir.
You suddenly wonder when it was you decided you had a favorite pair of his glasses. Oh, you've got it bad.
You wish you could have caught it all on tape, the awkward attempt at boxing, because you aren't sure he'll ever agree to do this again. You don't want to forget the way that he had to blow his hair out of his face when it fell in his eyes because he didn't have use of his fingers and the gloves only stuck his hair to his sweat-damp forehead. There's also something empowering about teaching genius Doctor Reid something he doesn't know, and the determination that had been on his face moments before the frustration had set in had been a gorgeous thing to see.
You drape an arm over his shoulders and walk him towards the showers. If you wind up in there alone with him, you know exactly how to wipe the frown off his face. The door to the locker room has a deadbolt, after all.
The next morning, sunlight is streaming through the window and pooling against the bridge of his nose, casting a shadow across the opposite side of his face. Sometimes you still can't believe he's here in your bed, and you hate to wake him. He had a bad night, tossing and turning, and you wrapped your arms around him until he stopped shifting, but that was when he'd started talking in his sleep. You couldn't make out most of what he said, but you heard the name Tobias and the rest of it didn't sound very happy.
Still, if gets much later, it'll be too hot to run, and you don't need a genius to tell you that heat stroke is a bad thing, or that exercise can help him get a better night's sleep tonight, in addition to producing endorphins in his body. Of course, your genius is still asleep right now, so you don't have to worry about getting a science lesson just yet.
You nudge him gently and he stirs and smiles that smile at you, the one that's totally unguarded that you only ever see early in the morning and late at night.
"Hey," you whisper.
"Hi," he mumbles back, and closes his eyes again.
He's adorable when he's sleepy, and you take a moment to admire the fine lines of his face, but then nudge him again anyway. "Get up."
"It's Saturday," he complains, but twenty minutes later he's brushing his teeth and putting in his contacts.
He didn't bring anything to run in, so he rolls your sweat pants up twice and finally resorts to belting them to keep them up over his narrow hips and absent posterior. It would look ridiculous, except that your old football jersey is hanging down over it and slipping off his shoulder, and you can't help but want to lick that jut of collar bone, press him back into the bed, and forget about jogging all together.
He could easily wear the shirt he'd packed, but then he'd have nothing to sleep in tonight unless he goes home for a fresh one, or does laundry here, and you know how much he hates doing laundry. He has a closet crammed full of mismatched clothes for that very reason, and you wonder how he can live with the ever-growing pile of dirty clothes in his laundry room.
You make a mental note to do a load or two for him the next time you're at his place, a way to say thanks for the times you've found all your dishes washed and your trash taken out on mornings you ran while he stayed here.
You force yourself to stop staring at how irresistible he looks in your jersey. "Let's go."
He only makes it a little over two miles before he stops running and clutches his side. You bet if he did this with you every day, he'd probably get better, even faster, than you are. He has a good forty pounds less to carry, at least, and you know how quick he can be when he needs to be. You turn and toss him your keys, running backwards for a second, and then keep going while he walks back to the house.
You'll beat him home. You know that. But you can stretch on the porch while you wait for him, and something feels right about giving him your keys. You should make him one to keep, you think, and it's not the endorphins kicking in that make you smile.
"Morgan, why are we doing this?" he asks. It's Sunday morning, and you think maybe he would like Judo better than boxing.
You shrug and shift on the bed. "If you don't want to, we can find something else to do."
He doesn't seem to like that answer. He frowns. "You seem to want me to."
"I--" you start. You do want him to, but you're getting the impression he doesn't mean that the way you do. "Wait, Spencer, what are you thinking?"
"I'm never-- Look, I've looked like this forever. I'm not going to change. I haven't weighed over one hundred and fifty pounds in my life." He looks put out. He doesn't look like he wants to be saying this, but there's something in his expression that hints that he probably doesn't think he can hold what he's thinking in any longer. "I'll never... you know..." He gestures at your body, up and down, as if that completes his thoughts.
It takes you a moment to get it, but when you do, you tilt your head at him, studying him for a moment. Then a wide smile breaks across your face and you lean in and kiss him. "You don't know I think you're beautiful?"
Your eyes are closed, but you'd bet he's still frowning even as he kisses you back, just by the way his voice sounds when he speaks again. "I know that, but--"
"But what?" you ask, and kiss him again. "You really think this is about the way you look, pretty boy?" You shift forward and plant your hands on either side of him, pressing your chest to his as you deepen the kisses.
"What else could it be about, Morgan?"
He pulls back, leaning back on his forearms to get out of your reach, studying you. You try to remember the words he said just a few days before.
"Endogenius opoid poly-somethin' compounds?" You draw a fingertip across his jaw, then lean in and follow the line with your lips, murmuring against his skin. "I hate to see you struggle."
"I'm not str--"
"You've been hiding it better at work, but I see you when you think no one's lookin', pretty boy," you whisper, and you note that he's gone a little tense. His fingers curl in your shirt, against your chest, and you think he might push you away. You know he hates the idea that he can't handle everything on his own. He always has handled everything himself since he was little, since his dad left him to be both child and parent to his mother.
You suddenly wonder if this whole plan has been a bad idea.
"Don't make me apologize for wanting to make your life easier," you request, and that seems to do the trick because his fingers go a little slack in your shirt and his shoulders drop down again. When you pull back, there's a hint of unguarded sadness in his eyes, but he's not frowning anymore. In fact, after a moment, he offers you a slow, sad smile.
"Exercise isn't the only way."
It takes you a moment to shift gears, which isn't really unusual when you're having a conversation with Reid. You offer him a tentative smile, wondering what he's thinking. "Go on," you prompt.
His smile slowly losses the sad edge, and you know that while he might not like accepting help, he's trying to appreciate what you were trying to do anyway. "Endorphins are released in the brain during orgasm, too." His smile goes a little wicked now, and you can't help but return it in full.
Your hands are around his waist in a heartbeat, pulling him close, one slipping between him and the mattress to squeeze his ass. "Oh, beautiful boy," you murmur, and kiss him hard, then press him down to the bed. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?"
"Science is a lot like sex. Sometimes something useful comes of it, but that's not the reason we're doing it." - Richard Feynman