#i keep fiddling with my muse list...sorry...

I've isolated myself from my friends and more importantly, you. I’m trying to do a million things and keep my thoughts under control and not drag anyone down with me. Other than the odd text here and there to you we haven’t talked a lot in a week. I can’t help but feel bad. I don’t do this on purpose and you understand that, having experienced the same thing yourself. You give me space and know that I’ll come to you when I need help or when I’m ready.

Which brings me to now. Knocking on your door, I’m greeted by Nick who welcomes me in with a hug. He tells me that you and Chris have just gone to get groceries and should be back soon.

“I’ll let him find out on his own that you’re here” Nick tells me as he retreats to his room.

I send Nick a smile as I head to the comfort of your room. Simply being in your bed and the smell of your cologne is enough to make me fall asleep with ease for the first time in a while.

Matt’s POV:

Walking into my room I’m met with you sleeping peacefully in my bed. “Oh sweet girl” I coo to myself.

Taking my backpack and hoodie off and placing them on my chair, I carefully climb into bed trying to not wake you. I lie there facing you, happy that you feel safe enough to come to me when you need me. My eyes dance over your delicate features. My heart skips a beat whenever I look at you.

I love your eyes. They remind me of an endless galaxy that I never wanna leave, the way your eyes squint when you’re truly happy, how unknowingly expressive you are, the way everything about you's so perfectly suited, just for you. I can’t wrap my head around what there is that you could dislike about yourself. You’re the most beautiful person that has walked this earth and I can’t believe I get to call you my girlfriend.

Noticing you slowly start to wake up I place my hand gently on your cheek and begin softly rubbing circles into your skin. As your eyes open I can see the emotion and the toll this past week has taken on you. You don’t let this stop you from smiling back at me as your eyes flutter shut, taking in the physical contact you’ve been missing.

“You don’t know how happy I am to see you honey. Are you okay?” I whisper.

“I’m okay now that you’re here. I’m sorry for pushing you away. I don't mean to do it, it just feels easier to deal with it myself and not put it on other people” you whisper, sadness filling your voice.

“You’re not alone in this, I’m here for you, just like you are for me. Do you wanna talk about your week or do you wanna forget about it?” I ask.

“I know, thank you for being so patient with me. I wanna forget about it and just be with you right now. I’ve missed your touch” you say.

I open my arms inviting you in. You rest your head on my chest, tilting it up to look at my horse necklace as you fiddle with it. Wrapping one arm securely around you, knowing it makes you feel safe, the other makes its way back to your cheek. My thumb mindlessly draws circles on your soft skin. The warmth of my touch makes your eyelids flutter as they grow heavy, lulling you into a much needed sleep.

Even when things seem like they're falling apart, he's right there to pick up the pieces.

Taglist (msg me if you wanna be added)

Aizawa suspected something wasn’t quite right by the moment he saw you entering the class a minute before the bell rang, all haggard and teary-eyed, though you tried your best to obscure your disposition. He always knew you to often be in a state of discomfort whenever you were compelled to socialize, especially with your classmates, but now - you looked as if you reached your limit of holding the weight of the world on your shoulders, crashing down all at once as depicted on your crestfallen expression. 

And when you showed up in front of the faculty room, timidly soliciting his presence, his suspicions were only further verified. Even with a pending question regarding subject matters in your mind, you weren’t one to approach a teacher to inquire about it, and if you did it was because the teacher was the one who would ask your attendance; never the other way around.

Present Mic was the first one to acknowledge you. He stood up from his office chair, waving at you comically. “Yo, (l/n)! Having trouble with English again?”

You never had a problem with his subject; he only insisted that you’d come to him in regards to that. “N-no, not really. May I speak to Aizawa-sensei?”

“Talk with me instead!” He enthusiastically spoke and headed over to you. “Come on, what’s the matter?”

“It isn’t your place to ask that when I’m here.” Aizawa interceded, clearly unimpressed by Mic’s antics. He failed to see the latter’s displeased countenance. “(L/n), what is it?”

You avoided eye contact with him, averting your view to the ground - that was alright. You were always like this, and he didn’t mind. Nothing out of place except for the fact that it looked as if you were about to cry any moment now.

“Can we- can we, um, talk somewhere more private?” You asked quietly.

His brows raised in wonder at your request. Nevertheless, he didn’t decline you, only nodding lackadaisically before heading towards the teacher’s lounge, where you followed him suit. He flicked the door tag to ‘occupied’ and entered the room after you, when he told you sit on the three-person sofa situated not quite on the farthest left of the space. Then, he settled himself on the chair across you.

“Well?” He asked, expectantly.

But you had once again your head above a thick cloud of anxiety. You knew that after the event with Momo in the girls’ locker room - where you had injured her against your will because she had been violating your personal space - your homeroom teacher kept a cautious eye on you in case you’d re-enact that incident. And it wasn’t just that incident that made him look at you like you were a criminal on the loose, either. Your classmates found and did a lot of ways to place you in Aizawa’s naughty list just so you wouldn’t snitch on their abusive (they’d call it affectionate) behavior on you.

That didn’t erase the fact that you were nevertheless his student; he cared for you no less than he cared for his other pupils, yet you were just too ignorant in figuring that out. All that mattered to you was that you’d voice out your current concern to him, but with your insecurities holding you down it seemed it would be more difficult than you had primarily foreseen it to be.

“I-I,” you stammered out, fiddling with something inside your pocket, “u-um, you see, t-there’s this, I mean, I can’t-”

He grew increasingly frustrated with your constant stuttering, and although he did understand your shy nature which largely affected your conversational habits, he only had so much patience to deal with it.

“I don’t have all day.” He stated, glowering at your form in mild irritation. “If you’re going to keep doing that, talk to the wall.”

You abruptly halted in speaking after that, only looking down on your lap, staring wide-eyed, grief-stricken at the revelation that perhaps he really did not want to heed any of your words because you were just that bad of a student that he had decided you were not worth much the effort to concern himself with. And maybe he was right - that your words didn’t matter because you didn’t matter; that there were more affairs he better be tending to than yours; that you were only making a big deal out of this when it truthfully wasn’t.

Oh god, you felt like vomiting. Self-deprecation was getting the better of you.

He stood up and sauntered to the exit, not bothering to spare you a glance. “Come back to me when you actually know what you want to say.”

It was a matter of seconds when you ran to him, pulling him back rather harshly by the grip you had on his sleeve. He turned around due to the force to see your head still hung low, avoiding his gaze as always - only, your shoulders were quivering sporadically, and occasional sniffs were heard from your person.

“P-please, sensei...” you voiced out, shaken and horrifyingly delicate. “I-I’m so scared. Please.”

While he looked at you with contracted irises, countenance now alert from your unexpected disposition, you pulled your trembling hand out of your skirt pocket, nervously disclosing to him from your palm a small, black device with a tiny yet prominent lens.

“M-my room,” you heaved, “I-I saw this i-in my room, m-my closet, while- while I was dressing up, and I don’t know how long it had been in there but it probably already caught me bare and-”

You broke down in a flurry misery and shame, allowing yourself to fall to the ground but you didn’t - Aizawa seized you in his arms, his gentle, fatherly arms that could only do so much to console you from the horror of your reality. And he held your head as you cried on his chest, one little thing he could do after ignoring your situation and letting you think that your significance was less than the rest of his other students. At that moment, you were just so little, so fragile, so naïve he’d keep you in his pocket if he could. Why would someone do something as debauched as illegally recording your innocent self?

“I’m sor-sorry,” you sobbed, “I’m really telling the truth, p-please-”

“Shh, it’s okay. I don’t doubt you.” He reassured. Why were you apologizing? Were you that insecure of being a nuisance? No, no, you never were. Not to him. He reached for your hand to take the cursed device. “Since when did you find out?”

“J-just this morning.” You responded.

“Alright. Do you want to rest? This must have taken a huge toll on you.”

But you still had classes ongoing. Then again, you didn’t feel like looking at the faces of the prime suspects who possibly did you dirty, even when you knew that you’d have to eventually interact with them to get notes of your missed lessons. You were so tired from summoning the lot of your courage to confront your teacher regarding your problem, so you probably wouldn’t have the energy to listen to class discussion. Aizawa finalized your decision by pulling you up and guiding you towards the office of Recovery Girl who, after being briefed of your predicament by your homeroom teacher, welcomed you with a warm smile, telling you to make yourself comfortable in one of the beds in the infirmary.

He then made his way to 1A classroom, a newfound swelling of rage and disappointment in his chest, both forwarded to his class and to himself because only now did he realize that perhaps you were often so restless and apprehensive in the presence of your classmates because they did things that made you bury yourself in the deepest parts of your shell as a last attempt to revel in a sense of safety. Your timidity was not entirely derived from your own nature; it was also due to the maltreatment you were receiving from your classmates. Halting his steps by the classroom door, he looked through the glass window, seeing the class focusing on Midnight’s lecture.

Well, not quite. He could tell that your classmates were visibly affected by the lack of your presence, glancing at your desk from time to time as quiz papers were being passed behind - so they were in the middle of a test, he guessed. But that wasn’t his concern.

In impudent manner, he walked in amid Midnight’s talking, disregarding her face’s sudden morphing into vexation as the students gave him a look of confusion.

“Eraser, what are you-” she was rudely interrupted as Aizawa took the test reference papers from her hands. Something about Modern Hero Art History, he read. He faced his class with disdain, stating,

“Until someone confesses their crime of hiding a spy camera on (l/n)’s dorm room, all of you are receiving failing marks on this test.”

Quite suddenly, the class burst into violent upheaval, gasping, perking, some allowing the dreadful news of your situation to sink in, others letting out noises of complaint before actually taking consideration to the main point of Aizawa’s statement. Midnight stared at him in disbelief, but did nothing to stop his measures.

Momo abruptly stood. “I-is (y/n) okay? We should go check on her!”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Aizawa said. “All of you are suspects. You’ve no right to see her.”

“She probably just made that up get back on us for whatever fucking reason!” Yelled Bakugou.

“Yeah?” The male pro-hero disingenuously mused. He then picked up the spy camera and held it for everyone to see, before setting it down the teacher’s podium. “This was found on her closet. Would she risk recording herself naked just to prove that point?”

Noise died down thereafter, setting their sights solemnly at the device, the class collectively having the same thought in regards to the spy camera.

(Why hadn’t they thought of that? It could have been easier to check on you that way, since you almost always confined yourself in the privacy of your own room.)

“So? No one wants to speak up?” Aizawa asked, though expected the silence.

“Aizawa, have them approach you after classes. It’s embarrassing this way.” Midnight intervened.

“Well that’s the point. Get them exposed to the entire class, so everyone could realize how much of a perverted bastard one of these to-be heroes are. Good values, my ass.” He replied, not bothering to filter rather colorful vocabulary. “Where’s your dignity?”

He let a minute or two pass for the perpetrator to reveal themselves, but soon it became apparent that whomever they were refused to admit to their crime, willing to sacrifice the grades of the class for the sake of anonymity. That would be deemed useless, anyway, because Aizawa was already set on figuring out whom they were, no matter the extent he’d go to in order for that to happen. He’d expel them at once.

But he didn’t have the power to expel someone outside of his class.

“I guess that’s it for your test.” He sighed, disgruntled, picking up the small camera and sauntering his way out of the classroom after giving Midnight a look that he was dead serious with marking all of them a failing score. She stared at him in uncertainty, nonetheless abided by his decisions, albeit hesitantly.

Upon ascertaining his absence, Midnight turned to Class 1A, amusement and humor dancing on her seductive countenance.

“Naïve, hormonal teenagers,” she mused, “the closet, really? Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere less conspicuous?”

None of them bothered to tell her that they were truthfully unaware of the incident.

===

Hagakure Toru, stealth hero, entered your room silently in the nude, the only proof of her movements being a tinier, different spy camera she’d brought along with her. No, not the closet, you might find it again. It looked so painfully obvious on the desk, too, and neither in the bathroom due to its pale white interior. 

But on the pencil holder situated atop your nightstand would do. You barely moved it, anyway, only having its purpose served as a decoration; something to fill the vacancy of the bedside table. After a few adjustments in camouflaging the device with the environment and making sure the lens displayed the area of your space, Hagakure checked its concealment one more time, before mechanically heading outside and back to her own dorm. 

Her body collided almost violently with her room’s door, snapping her out of her trance. 

“H-huh!? Weird... how’d I end up in my room?” She asked, receiving no answer from particularly anyone.

When (Y/n) was plucked out of Laurie’s pocket and ripped from his heart, there wasn’t much else to do than wander. Laurie passed the days on his own and when he wasn’t lost amongst the memories of his youth, he was writing letters to (Y/n) when he ought to have been studying and fashioning poetry when he should have been sleeping. There is something elusively romantic about writing to someone you don’t have the address for - something that lies in the yearning of one’s being and the void that is left behind.

As the years wore on, Laurie grew out of those rose-colored teenage years, but his heart still beat to the rhythm of a sonnet. Across the ocean, (Y/n) was much the same. Although less of a poet, (Y/n) was a dreamer, and when they closed their eyes, they were there in the gardens of their youth, with a boy they had once thought of loving at their side.

It was a muddy, April day when Laurie felt a particular kind of ache settle in his heart. (Y/n) had told him, once, when they were hiding in the study of his grandfather’s house rather than practicing the piano, that muddy, grey mornings were their favorite. He had laughed at them back then, even after (Y/n) insisted that grey mornings had a comforting sort of calm about them - something that made sense to Laurie, despite it all. (Y/n) had insisted on the beauty of drab mornings, and when he told them that loving dull skies was like loving the taste of over-boiled tea, (Y/n) told him that they loved that, too. “After all,” they had said, “that’s how you make it when your grandfather is away, and there’s no one here but us.”

“But it’s not any good.”

“To me it is.” At their statement, Laurie made a face, and (Y/n) laughed like a spring breeze. “As is anything that is made with love.”

Laurie’s cheeks bloomed with a soft red at the mention of something so sacred as love, and he hid his flustered feelings by fiddling with the papers on the study desk. On a few pages, Laurie saw his own messy scrawl, and on a couple of others, he saw (Y/n)’s curled handwriting.

“Why don’t you make a list, then?” Laurie searched for a blank piece of parchment and set one down in front of (Y/n), giving them a quill and inkpot. “Make a list of everything you can think of that’s made with love.”

“Why?” And the curiosity in (Y/n)’s voice was gentle.

“So that I may make a list of my own, and we can learn to love the list of the other.”

(Y/n) smiled.

That had been many years ago, but Laurie could still remember the soft, subdued smile that (Y/n) had given him that day - an expression of contented awe. He had associated that look with muddy, April days a long time ago, and there was something particularly melancholic about a memory so beautiful and so full of love.

And a long time after, Laurie was still in the study, now in his early twenties. Sitting in a newly upholstered seat, he pulled out of a small tin box a stack of old papers filled with curled handwriting. At the bottom of the stack lay the list from so long ago, well-loved and well revised, with additions like “poorly done sketches from the neighbor children,” and “broken seashells from the beach,” written in minuscule letters.

Laurie was reading number twenty-six (“the singing of birds on Sunday mornings”) when a voice spoke from the stillness.

“You still have that?”

Transcending time and distance, Laurie would have known that voice anywhere.

“(Y/n)?”

Laurie's old friend, leaning against the door of the study, giggled from delight, and not a moment later, Laurie had them wrapped in a hug, his years of loneliness only tightening his grip - warm, enveloping, and ferocious, like he would do anything to never lose them again.

“Laurie, you’re going to crush me!”

“Wasn’t that on your list, though?” Laurie pulled away, holding (Y/n) at arm's length, looking into eyes he hadn’t seen in years - bright and strong; beautiful beyond belief. “Number thirty-one: ‘hugs you think will crack your spine.’”

(Y/n) hummed fondly. “And if I remember correctly, your number thirty-one was hiding in the closet during parties, whispering stories by candlelight.”

“You remember?”

“Of course, I do,” (Y/n) said earnestly, their brow creasing slightly, as though they were surprised at his question. “I have it right… here.” (Y/n) reached into the inside pocket of their coat, pulling out an old and fading envelope. They gingerly pulled out a piece of old parchment, reading the first sentence on the page. "Number one: 'the too-small gloves that you made me.' You really should have written my name - had anyone else  found the list, they would have been terribly confused."

“You still have it.”

(Y/n) smiled, and the expression was there - that contented sort of awe that never failed to make Laurie feel seen and, perhaps most of all, loved. For a moment, the two just stood there, within arm's length, holding onto each other and marveling at all the other had become. There was something elusively romantic about the moment; something heavenly that had been captured in every poem Laurie had ever written and every dream (Y/n) had ever fathomed.

“I missed you, Laurie.” And those four whispered words held a fragile sort of intimacy that could be shattered with a voice much louder than a sigh.

“And I missed you more than you could ever know.”

(Y/n)’s breath hitched.

Laurie stepped away suddenly as though a spell broke. He turned his back to (Y/n), his cheeks already starting to flare, and scanning the study for another chair - something for (Y/n) to sit in, close to him, at last.

“Ah, here.” Laurie pulled a chair closer to the study desk. “You can sit there and tell me all about your adventures in England. Would you like any tea?”

He turned to face (Y/n) once again, and they had a mischievous smile on their face. “Over-boiled, I’m guessing?”

Laurie chuckled, looking downward to hide the embarrassment that crept up onto his cheeks. “I think you’ll find I’m much improved. I’ve had five years of practice since you were last here.”

“Five years,” (Y/n) mused, walking over to their seat and sitting gently. “It’s funny, it feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve been in Massachusetts, but it’s only been five years.”

“Five years is a long time,” Laurie supplied. “A lot can change.”

“But a lot can stay the same. Or, at least I hope.”

The two friends looked at each other. For a moment, it felt like the world slowed around them, and they were nothing more than the teenagers they had been five years prior when they were writing silly lists of things that were made with love.

“Well,” (Y/n) started, “I suppose I have stories I could tell, but I want to know about you."

"Well, I want to know about you!"

(Y/n) scoffed and shook their head, an expression that was beautiful, akin to the breaking of a new day.

"Well, this town has been like it's always been." Laurie relented, relaxing in his chair. “The March sisters have been less willing to spend time with me lately, since my mood has gone sour. but you’ll be glad to know that I have plans for getting back in their good graces, soon.”

(Y/n) leaned forward, putting their elbows on the desk and steepling their fingers, as though whatever they were talking about was of great importance. On instinct, Laurie leaned in as well, two conspirators in an empty house. "Well, now we're getting somewhere, Mr. Laurence."

Laurie stifled a chuckle, (Y/n) clearly struggling to do the same. "Indeed we are, (Y/n) (L/n)."

They both broke, and laughter filled the room, the sound echoing through the floorboards, unearthing the past where they had done just the same when they were years younger, but much the same.

Laurie sighed. "How is it that after five years of being apart, nothing has changed?"

"Well, I know you, Teddy, nothing can change that." (Y/n) smiled, gentle but full. Laurie felt a tugging on his heart - something almost painful if it weren't for the care in (Y/n)'s eyes, wrapping him in the most comforting sincerity - a gravity more divine than existing. "Even when we were far from each other, I had your list and my memories; you were the most full thing I ever had."

"I didn't know if you'd remember."

"I always remembered you."

Laurie breathed.

“Well,” (Y/n) began, something in their voice a little unsure, endearing Laurie already, “Now that we know we both remembered and kept the list of the other, I have to ask: did you learn to love my list?”

“I did.”

(Y/n) seemed pleased. “Even muddy, April mornings?”

Laurie chuckled, the feeling warm and pleasant in his chest - like a thunderstorm in June. “They were the first I learned to cherish.”

They smiled at each other once more.

“What about the meat packing district?” Rossi muses.

It’s a rhetorical question but one you actually have an answer to, “I don’t think so. The busiest part of the city is between the meat packing district and where he’s dumping the bodies. Cops do random stop-and-searches sometimes, I don’t know if he’d risk it.”

“He could drive around.”

You frown, thinking, “He’d be crossing state lines. Hey, wait,” You stand up from your chair, walking to the board and starting drawing circles that illustrate your point, “Spencer thought there must be a pattern, right? But it died off here and we didn’t know about any more victims. If we expanded the search to outside of state lines it might connect here, here, and here,” You circle each here with a point, tapping the pen against the board triumphantly.

Rossi smiles, “Good thinking kid. I’ll call Garcia.”

Exhausted from your breakthrough, you flop back down into the chair. The clothes you’ve been wearing are icky, uncomfortable with sweat and flying and you’re strongly regretting your choice in underwear now too.

You hear the door swing open, looking up to see Spencer entering the room. Holding your go-bag. The one you’d left on the jet this morning. The jet that was a two hour drive from your current location.

“Where did you? When did you?” Your incoherency is related to both your tiredness, and his thoughtfulness.

He smiles, “It took some calling around but I found a cab driver willing to go and pick it up. It just got here.”

“Spencer I-,” You start, scrambling to your feet to accept the bag he’s offering to you, “Thank you. That’s so sweet of you. How much was the cab?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He says, handing it to you and heading over to the board, “What are these?”

Rossi - who was watching the exchange with some amusement - starts explaining the eureka moment you’d had. Spencer nods along, turning to smile at you when Rossi credits the thought to you. It’s something he does a lot, Rossi’s noticed. Not in a condescending way, Spencer knows more than anyone just how capable you are at your job. It’s as if he needs to channel his love for you somewhere, and chooses pride. It’s the easiest one to explain, after all, because who isn’t happy for their colleague making breakthroughs?

That’s how Spencer justifies it anyhow.

You leave the room, heading to the bathroom to change. You’re incredibly grateful to slip out of your dirty clothes and the bra that’s cutting into you, so much so that you decide to pop on a t-shirt under your blazer. The sports bra and t-shirt combo revitalises you more than you thought possible for this hour.

Digging through, you find an item that you didn’t pack. A pair of brown fluffy slippers. Attached to them, a note, ‘I thought the heels on your boots looked uncomfortable, and I didn’t want your feet to hurt. - Spencer.

He signed the note. Something about that, alongside the gift itself, sends a flush of warmth through you.

He gave you his slippers

So?

Is that something friends do?

Wracking your brain, you try to think up if he’d do this for anyone else. Hotch? The thought makes you laugh. Emily? Maybe, actually. If she didn’t make it so hard for others to take care of her. Penelope? Almost definitely.

Your heart sinks a little, and you distract yourself by fumbling to get your work boots off and the slippers on.

It doesn’t matter it isn’t romantic, it matters that he did it.

It matters to every other person you date

He sets an impossibly high bar

Thankfully, the late hour means that there aren’t many local PD still hanging around to see your interesting choice of shoe. You slip through to the conference room, where Spencer and Rossi are huddled over the phone talking to Garcia.

Spencer does a double-take. He knew the gift he’d given you, but he hadn’t expected to see you...wearing them? You look beautiful: hair mussed from fiddling with it, an old college t-shirt under your blazer, brown fluffy slippers on your feet. The mix of professional and homely attire does something to him that he can’t quite explain, and he has to clear his throat before making his next point to Garcia.

Did he just blush?

You try not to stare at him, try not to see if that’s a tinge of red creeping up under his turtleneck.

It is.

“Thanks Garcia,” Rossi clips, hanging up the phone, “I’m going to go and find some coffee. You two,” He points, looking knowingly between you, “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

No sooner has Rossi left the room, you both try speaking at once.

“You look-” He starts.

“Thank you so-” You start.

You both tinge with warmth.

“You go first,” He says, gnawing at his plump lower lip, finger turning oer the pen in his hand.

You laugh, a little breathless, “Well fuck, I wasn’t expecting to be announcing my undying love for you this early in the morning.”

His eyebrows quirk, is that...hope?

No. Wishful thinking

It’s probably confusion, and you’re a little embarassed, so you quickly clarify, “I mean Spencer Reid this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. I’m endebted to you forever, really.”

A look washes over him: disappointment? You can’t trust your eyes to see the clock, so you feel you can’t entrust them to analyse his micro-expressions right now either. Especially when you’re biased by personal desire.

“It’s no problem,” He says, voice cracking a little, “You look...” He trails off.

“Unprofessional?” You suggest, teasing.

He shakes his head, swallowing, “You look really nice.”

It’s your turn to swallow. You drop your gaze to the pen, feeling too flustered to continue looking your colleague in the eyes at this moment in time, “Thank you. Where did you get slippers at this time of night?”

He shifts, one hand settling over the wrist of the other and fingers nervously rubbing over the back of his hand, “They were uhm. They were mine.”

“Yours?”

“Yeah,” It comes out pitchy, a squeak, “I’m sorry, that’s probably weird I just thought-”

“No, Spence,” You say, looking up at him and giving him a genuine smile, “No, it’s really sweet. I’m really lucky to have you.”

He gives his signature tiny tight-lipped smile, the one he gives when he’s feeling awkward or suppressing something he wants to say but can’t.

Please let it be the latter.

You relinquish him of the obligation of responding, instead standing to join him at the board, “You think you’ve got enough to make a geographical profile out of this?”

He nods, tapping the board with his pen, “Your idea about crossing interstate lines was really smart.”

“I have my moments.”

He wants to tell you that everything you have is a moment. You want to step closer, to cup his face in your hands, to press a kiss to the lips that you swear are pouting, begging to be kissed. You don’t.

Namely, because Rossi chooses this moment to re-enter the room, clutching three cups of coffee, “A little help here?”

From the way you spring apart, despite not even being that close, he wishes he’d taken a little longer. Damn kids and their inability to express their feelings for one another.

***

It’s 4:30am when the alarm on your phone goes off. With the work of the four of you - Garcia sporadically included when she had genius updates - you’ve managed to uncover a pattern that arches across states. You’d called Hotch, who’d commended the good work and advised that you should head to bed at 4:30. The others would get up then, and start to head out to the different potential crime scenes. Local PD was already on it.

You’d been told under no uncertain terms that you were to rest until at least 10am. Unless there was a call from Hotch. You prayed there wouldn’t be.

Rossi’s off the minute the alarm rings, bustling out the door with a “See you later kids.”

You wait behind while Spencer packs his things into his satchel. Or rather, unpacks his things from his satchel, frantically tearing it apart.

“What are you looking for?” You ask.

“My key card,” He murmurs, “I swear it was in my wallet.”

“You were rooming with Morgan, right? Want me to call him?”

“Yes please,” He says, continuing to unearth the contents of his bag onto the desk, with an increasing degree of agitation every second that goes by.

You dial Morgan’s number, and he answers after two rings, “Hey kid.”

You put the phone on loudspeaker.

“Hey. I’m with Spencer, we’re about to head up to our rooms for the night, are you still here? He can’t find his keycard.”

He lets out a breath of air through his teeth, “Sorry, I’m already on my way to one of the crime scenes. Local PD found a body over the state line. Nobody’s at the hotel but you guys and Rossi.”

Spencer outwardly sighs.

“No problem, we’ll figure something out.”

“Alright, good work kid, get some rest.”

The phone line clicks. Spencer’s brow is pinched with frustration, and your heart breaks for him. You’ve all been awake well over 24 hours, and he looks exhausted. He’s more eyebag than man at this point.

“Do you want me to go to the front desk?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “Reception doesn’t open until 6am. I’ll just wait here until then.”

He starts packing the belongings back into his bag, a resigned look on his face. And you have an idea.

“Actually,” You say, pulling the keycard out of your pocket and sliding it across the table to him, “You’ve just won one free pass to my bedroom.”

He picks the card up, squinting in confusion.

“Me and Rossi both got put in single rooms. I mean, it might not be the most comfortable thing in the world, both of us in a single bed, but it’s better than nothing right?”

He opens his mouth to object, and you shake your head.

“Spence you look like you’re about to drop unconscious on the floor and I don’t want to be responsible for yet another injureid.”

You’re so tired that the pun seems hilarious to you, and it does elicit a small laugh from him.

“Come on, it’s either share a bed with me, share a bed with Rossi, or try to sleep in one of these chairs. And I’ll be honest, I’d be kind of offended if you’d rather either of the other two options.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” He says, obviously warming up to the offer but not wanting to push his luck. You can hear the hesitancy in his voice.

“You can. But you won’t,” You tell him, settling your go-bag on your shoulder, “And might I remind you that all this time you’re spending objecting are minutes we could be spending sleeping.”

That seems to win him over. He tucks everything back into his bag, zipping it up, “After you.”

“You have the keycard,” You smile, “After you.”

***

The bed is a single bed. It prompts another round of ‘No really, I can sleep on the floor’ from Spencer, your enquiries about if it’s too much for his germaphobia or issues with touching, and his blushy embarassed reassurance that he doesn’t mind if it’s you.

He doesn’t mind if it’s you.

Not as if you’ll spend the next year mulling over those words or anything.

When you get out of the bathroom from changing, Spencer is tucked up in bed. Well, you say tucked up, but he’s practically lay right on the edge. How he’s actually physically still being supported by the mattress at this point must be his physics magic.

“I thought I said I didn’t want you getting injured,” You say, crossing the room to him.

He opens his eyes, “I didn’t want to-”

“It’s okay Spence,” You tell him, huddling down into bed.

There’s about enough room for you both to fit in, with an inch between you, so you pull gently at his arms, urging him closer.

“There’s enough room for us both without you going flying in the night,” You tell him.

He nods, obviously still a little nervous. It’s odd, lying face to face with him, illuminated only by lamplight. He looks soft. He always does, but there’s something intimate about this. You can feel his breath fan across your cheek, can feel how heat radiates off his arms.

“Do you want me to turn the lamp off?” He asks.

It’s not your staring that implores him to ask, because he’s been staring at you too. The both of you, trapped in a perfect bubble of a moment. Lamplight a spotlight, highlighting all the features of the person you love most.

“Sure,” You whisper, breath catching in your throat.

He flicks it off, settling back down.

His breath brushes against your face when he asks, “Do you want me to turn around?”

“Do you want to?”

He hesitates for a moment, voice even softer when he answers, “No.”

It’s dark. You can hardly make out his outline. Yet somehow, you both just know. Shifting, infitismally closer. Breaching the tiniest gap between you somehow feels like crossing the Grand Canyon. Your heart thumps in your chest, and you can feel it in your fingers, the fingers that trace cautiously along his jaw.

His mouth finally, finally, slotting against yours in the most gentle of kisses. A blink and you’d miss it.

And yet, in the same blink, your life changes forever.

When Rossi makes a speech at your wedding, he admits to being the thief of the missing keycard, and intentional orchestrator of the greatest love story he’s ever known. His words.

---

Permanent tagslist: @reidingmelodies @takeyourleap-of-faith @sassiest-politician @calm-and-doctor @ssa-m-187  @seasonfivereid @averyhotchner @muffin-cup @purplewaterbottles082 @spencerreid9 @drspencerreidd @reidsnose

-

“I don’t do the boyfriend thing,” Christian says. “The hearts, flowers, romance, none of it.”

Ana’s mouth forms into a silent gasp of an “o,” her face lighting up like everything’s gone from making no sense to complete understanding. “Are you-?” she begins in a whisper, but she cuts herself off. She glances around the cafe, pulls out her phone, and begins typing. “Just a minute.”

Christian watches, puzzled as she finishes up whatever she’s doing, sets her phone on the table, and slides it around for him to see. When he picks it up, he sees the word that he didn’t know he was waiting for.

“Aromantic?”

One who does not feel romantic attraction, separate from whether one does or does not feel sexual attraction.

Ana nods. “Does that sound like you?”

Christian meets Ana’s eyes and asks, “That’s a thing?”

-

“C’mon, Christian,” Ana says, gently shoving at his shoulder. “Obviously you like sex, but you’ve gotta have something you’re interested in besides that.” She points a finger at him when he opens his mouth and goes, “And don’t say business stuff.”

“What if I do like business stuff?” Christian playfully protests.

Ana rolls her eyes and fiddles with the black ring around her right middle finger. An ace ring, he learned. He had seen people wearing black rings before, specifically swingers, but it’s when it’s on the right middle finger that it’s an ace ring. “That’s not what I mean. You have a life outside work and bed, right?”

Christian pauses and thinks for a moment. He hasn’t really been doing anything outside of business meetings and sex meetings for a while now. Well, he does have something new on his to-do list: find a new therapist.

(“So when were you going to tell me the person you keep referring to as ‘the crack whore’ is your birth mother?” Ana had asked one day.

Christian scowled. “I thought I already had.”

“Buddy, you need therapy.”

“I have a therapist, Ana.”

“Cool, cool,” Ana said. “This is on your therapy plan, then, right? Part of your goals? Because if not, it should be.”

“Therapy plan?”

“Oh, Christian,” Ana sighed as she facepalmed.)

“I guess it’s been a while since I’ve taken Charlie Tango out,” he muses.

“Charlie Tango?” Ana repeats.

“She’s a Eurocopter, EC-135, the safest in its…” he explains, trailing off when it looks like Ana is uninterested. “Ah, never mind. It’s my helicopter.”

“Oh!” she yelps. “No, I’m sorry! I was just caught up in, ‘You own a helicopter?!’ You have too much goddamn money, Christian. But I digress. Please, go ahead and infodump!”

Christian smiles as he gets an idea. “Why don’t I show you Charlie Tango myself?” After all, demonstration is more fun than explanation.

Ana gets to her feet, nearly bouncing as she does. “I’ve never been in a helicopter before! And I’m not about to pass up the chance now!”

-

Christian gets the message at the worst possible time: when he’s crying.

Ash, bless him, has been leagues better than Dr. Flynn with patience to rival that of Job. He’s been learning a lot about looking at his childhood from the perspective of an adult and that there’s a lot of anger that comes with doing that. And all of that has been exacerbated by an email from Elena.

Abuse at the hand of a parent’s friend that was allowed to just happen is a bitch of a thing.

He has no fucking clue how to handle Elena, either emotionally or fiscally considering the salon they co-own. And he doesn’t know what’s worse, how much he’s growing to hate her or how much he still likes her in spite of what she did to him.

(“It’s okay to have these good feelings and good memories,” Ash told him. “And it’s okay to be bitter about having good feelings or good memories about an abuser. There’s no one correct way to feel about any of this. But at some point, the feeling will pass. Once it does, you let it go.”)

It’ll pass, all right. Like a fucking kidney stone.

“Christian, your phone is-” Elliot begins, holding the phone in question, but he stops short when he sees Christian doubled over with his arms wrapped around his knees. “-holy shit.”

“What?!” Christian lashes out on impulse. Fuck. “Sorry. Sorry. What?” He’ll talk to Elliot about that later, when he can actually give him a worthwhile apology.

“Somebody sent you their location,” Elliot explains, handing Christian his phone. “Caught the push notification.”

Christian takes his phone, anger ebbing away in favor of bemusement. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere tonight. Then he sees what chat it’s in, and his blood turns to ice.

“Ana,” he gasps, getting to his feet.

She’s out celebrating the end of her college exams with her friends at the bar. There’s no way she’d just send him her location with no explanation of what’s going on unless something’s wrong.

“Elliot, something’s going on with Ana,” he explains, trying not to let himself get frantic. “Can you drive?”

-

Christian roughly shoves José away from Ana, and he’d like to do worse to him, but Elliot is taking him aside and trying to talk things through. He forces himself to leave that to Elliot. Right now, Ana is bent over and apparently retching. He holds her hair back from her face as she empties her stomach. He looks away from her for just a moment when he hears a punch connect, and he sees Elliot rubbing his fist with José laid out on the ground. Guess negotiations fell through. It must’ve been really bad if he pissed off Elliot of all people.

Elliot looks over to Christian, catches his eye, and gestures to José saying, “Well somebody here is really fuckin’ entitled!” He walks over to the bar, shaking out his hand. “I’m going to see about a first aid kit. Will you and Ana be alright?”

Ana wipes at her mouth and asks, “Can- can I have some water?”

“Yeah,” Elliot answers. “Yeah, I got you.”

Christian eases Ana over to the curb and sits them both down, letting her lean on him and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“Should’ve fuckin’ known,” Ana moans in soft despair, putting a hand to her head.

“Known what?” Christian quietly asks.

“That he was just my friend because he wanted sex,” she answers, her breath hitching before she continues in shuddering words, “H-he… he said how would I know I don’t want to if I never did. Said he’d show me how good it can be, even after I said no.”

He swallows as he listens to her weeping on his sleeve. He may not have the exact same experience, but how many times has he been having a fun time with a partner only for them to try to push a romantic agenda? How would he know he doesn’t like dating and hearts and flowers and frilly Valentine’s bullshit if he never tried it? How many women have acted like they know his mind?

Now that he knows the truth about himself, he recoils at being forced to be something he’s not.

And that’s exactly what Ana just went through, just on a different level.

José should thank his lucky stars that Elliot’s the one who knocked him out.

Christian gently squeezes her and says, “Listen to me. Anyone who tells you they know what you want better than you do is not worth your time.”

Ana wetly chuckles at him. “Therapy’s paying off, huh?”

“You could say that,” he answers just as Elliot comes back with an ice pack on his hand, a glass of water, and Kate in tow.

“Found your friend,” Elliot tells Ana as he passes her the water.

“And we called an ambulance just in case…” Kate explains, tipping her head towards José. “Well. This party’s a bust.”

“Could be worse,” Elliot says, shooting Kate a winning grin. “Not every night I get to save a damsel in distress and get a kiss for my troubles.”

“That was on your knuckles!” Kate specifies as she sits down with Ana.

Elliot joins the others on Kate’s free side and says, “Just let me know if I can return the favor.”

Kate rolls her eyes, but she’s giving him a small smile. “Thank you for looking out for Ana.” She then turns to Christian. “Both of you.”

-

Christian runs his hands through his hair and turns away from the door. “This is a mistake.”

“We don’t know that yet,” Ana argues, gently taking his arm and turning him back around. “I promise we can bail if things go pear-shaped. But you owe it to her and you to try.”

He knows she’s right. It’s the same thing Ash said in their last session, try to make amends. What he learned about himself isn’t an excuse, but it is an explanation that might make things easier.

While they’re stood still, Ana takes out her phone and pulls up her clock app. “Why don’t we set a timer?” she suggests. “We can set it for five minutes, see how it goes from there.”

Christian nods as he considers this. Just like scheduling a business meeting. It sets an expectation, one he finds he’s grateful for. “Okay,” he agrees, walking up to the door with her. And then as he steels himself, “Okay.” Then he knocks on the door.

Leila just barely cracks the door open, but when she sees who it is, she throws herself at him. “Master!” she cries. “You’ve come for me!”

Christian carefully holds her back, his hands on her shoulders. “Hello, Leila,” he greets. “I- I think I owe you an explanation.”

Leila goes back down on her feet, her arms curling in front of her chest. “I don’t understand.”

“That- we’re going to talk about that,” Christian says as Ana starts the timer. “But before we do anything else, I want to tell you I’m sorry.”

It was a long and occasionally awkward talk, especially with Leila’s confusion about Ana’s presence there and Christian’s discovery of his aromanticism. But once things got started, Leila became more open to Christian’s side of things and to sharing her own. As it is, she did find love after Christian only for his life to be tragically cut short.

“I’ve just been alone since it happened, wondering why I’m still alive,” she told them before breaking down in a sob.

Ana doesn’t hesitate. She pulls Leila into her arms and rubs her back, letting her cry as much as she needs to. “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” Ana tells her. “You don’t have to do it all by yourself.”

“No, you don’t,” Christian adds. “If you’re okay with having me as a friend, then I’d like to help.”

“That- that might be hard,” Leila admits when she calms down. “Just ‘cause of what we used to be. It’s not your fault; it’s because of what I want right now.”

It makes sense. With everything falling apart, it’s so easy to reach out for what you know. How many times has Christian fallen in that same trap?

“If space is what you need from me, then that’s what I can do,” he agrees with a nod.

“But we’re not just going to leave you hanging,” Ana promises. “We’ll figure something out.”

-

Christian’s phone vibrates in the pattern that indicates he’s receiving a call while he’s in a meeting. He rarely gets calls, only texts for the most part. This is even more worrisome when he sees it’s Ana calling.

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” he tells the board, stepping out of the room.

When he answers, he hears Ana on the other end sniffling softly before she gets out, “There was an accident. Dad’s in the hospital.”

Christian rubs his forehead with his free hand trying to take this in. He takes a deep breath, trying to keep his therapy exercises in mind. What he feels is temporary. What matters is what he can do. It’s funny how he can borrow from some of his other activities to get into the right headspace.

Alright. First things first. He tells Ana, “Give me one moment. I'm at work, but I'll be right back.” He puts her on hold, opens the door to the conference room, and says, “I’m sorry, I’ve got a family emergency. We’ll have to take this up at another time.”

He doesn’t even wait to reschedule. He takes Ana off hold. “Can you drop your location?” he asks as he briskly walks down the hall. “I can be there right away.”

“You don’t have to do that, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“I don’t have to, but I can,” he says, though he does turn his walking to a slow pacing until he gets more definite info. “Do you want me to be there? Or do you want to just talk to me like this?”

“Ah, actually, if you can come? I’ll drop my location now.”

-

Ana gives Christian a hug like a vice when he reaches her.

“They said Dad might not be able to walk again,” she sobs. “I don’t- I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he tells her. “And you don’t have to figure it out right now.”

Ana nods against his shoulder. “You’re right. You’re right. It’s just-” But she lets the words fall away.

Christian nods as he rubs her back and strokes her hair, holding her just as tight. “It is. It really is. How’s he doing otherwise?”

Ana pulls back just a little bit and wipes at her eye with the heel of her hand. “He’s been sleeping on and off. That’s mostly the pain meds. I think. I hope.” She leans on him again. “Thank you for being here, Christian.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “It’s what I should do.”

She cries a little bit more before saying, “You’re my best friend.”

He can’t remember the last time anyone’s said he’s their best friend. He can’t even remember the last time anyone said he’s their friend. Ana has certainly implied they’re friends, but to hear it like this both makes his heart soar at this realized love and pierces it to see her in pain. He swallows around the lump in his throat and says, “You’re my best friend, too.”

-

“Mr. Steele?”

Ray blearily looks up at Christian from his hospital bed. “Mr. Grey,” he weakly responds. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Christian gives him a wry laugh. It’s no wonder Ana loves Ray as her own father. It reminds him of his bond with his own family. Stepdad and adoption are not dirty words in Christian’s mind.

“Ana’s going to get a shower and a fresh change of clothes,” Christian says. “So while she’s gone, I thought I might talk to you about what I can do to help.”

Ray eyes Christian and tells him, “This isn’t a charity case.”

Christian raises a hand. “It’s not,” he agrees. “Ana’s made it clear in the past that she doesn’t want extravagant gifts. I’m not here to offer money. But with that said, I don’t want my best friend’s father to lose any semblance of life because he’s drowning in medical debt.”

Ray is silent at that, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

It’s all so much. Christian moves the chair in the room closer to the bed and sits down next to Ray. “Mr. Steele, if you’d like any of my lawyers to look over your hospital bills and negotiate them to something reasonable, all you have to do is say the word.”

He makes a wheezing sort of laugh. “That does sound like a reasonable step down from medical bills paid in full.”

“We can talk about it again once you’re discharged,” Christian says. “Let you have the sticker shock first.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to die?” Ray jokes.

Christian gives him a sincere laugh at that. “Ana would kill me if I did that.”

Ray laughs again. Then, “Christian, can you do something for me?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you get me a pack of cards from the hospital gift shop?” he asks. “It’d be nice to play cards.”

“Are you sure you want to play cards with me?” Christian asks in return.

“I won’t feel bad about you paying for my hospital bills if it’s out of my winnings.”

Christian gets to his feet again and says, “Okay, but you’re going to be the one to tell Ana when you lose.”

“Big words, but let’s see you back ‘em up!”

-

Christian thought he would feel weird being in a wedding party, but what was he going to do? Tell Elliot, “Sorry, beloved brother of mine, I will NOT be the best man at your wedding to the woman of your dreams?” That wasn’t going to happen.

But sometimes the universe works things out in unexpected ways.

Christian walks Ana down the aisle, a green flower pinned on his lapel and a purple flower pinned on her maid of honor dress. Their own little inside joke about their different pride colors with a shared shade of grey.

(“Make sure yours isn’t a carnation,” Ana told him. “A green carnation means something else.”

Christian rolled his eyes at her. “Ana, I’m aware. Though come to think of it, maybe I should consider what men might have to offer.”

Ana shrugged and said, “Couldn’t hurt!”)

Ana goes to stand for Kate, Christian goes to stand for Elliot, and the two know this is where they’re meant to be.

-

“Christian!” Ray calls. “Can you help clear a path to the bar?”

“I got you,” Christian answers, moving some chairs out of the way in the reception hall so Ray can wheel his chair over to get a drink. “Shout if you need anything else.”

Ray waves off his concern. “I’ll let you know if I need a drinking buddy.”

Christian shakes his head fondly before looking out at the dance floor. Ana and the other bridemaids are having fun, but he sees José approaching. Christian starts heading there, but just as he does Ana puts a hand out to stop José. Some kind of conversation happens that he can’t hear over the music, but it’s clear enough that José’s been shot down. Apparently, he knows enough not to make a scene at the wedding. (Why he was invited Christian’s not sure he’ll ever know.)

“So, what’s with the green flower?” he hears someone ask behind him.

He turns around to find a gorgeous blonde he swears he’s seen before. Someone who works for the family? He thinks her name might be Gretchen.

It’s odd, but Ana told him the desire to just out himself sometimes comes with realizing your orientation. That depending on what’s going on or where you are you might end up outing yourself to complete strangers you never plan on meeting again. And, well, she did ask.

“I’m aromantic,” he answers. He then shrugs. “Seems kind of odd that I’d be at a wedding considering that, but here I am.”

She looks a bit bemused but also intrigued. Might be the looks. He’s never been blind to being considered handsome, especially in the moments when a woman is expecting him to be the dashing romance novel hero. “What is aromantic?”

He gives her the general spiel, trying to keep it brief. But now that he knows, it’s so easy to talk about it. It’s so easy to be himself.

“So you’re into sex but not romance?” Gretchen sums up.

“Basically,” he agrees. “I know, it sounds cold.”

Gretchen takes a sip from her flute of champagne before shrugging. “I don’t know about that. As long as everybody knows what they’re getting into, I don’t see the problem with it. To be honest, I’ve never been overly fussed about romance myself.”

“Is that so?” Christian asks.

Gretchen nods. “I don’t know if I’m aromantic, but I can understand it. Sometimes it’s nice to have a friend with benefits.”

Christian decides to take a chance. He leans closer to Gretchen and whispers, “Do the benefits include rope and blindfolds?”

Gretchen gives him the come hither eyes and whispers back, “You’re speaking my language, Mr. Grey.”

“Call me Christian,” Christian says. “Want to go somewhere after this?”

Xxx

You’d barely made it into the loft before you were pinned up against the far wall, Derek holding your hands up on either side of your head at the wrists, his grip much tighter than it should be, but not as much as it could be.

“I thought I told you to stay on your side of the city,” he hissed out, face inches from yours, eyes glowing red, and a low growl rumbling in his chest.

His eyebrows knit in confusion at your smirk, his body pressing against yours as you made a halfhearted effort to push you both off the wall.

Rolling your eyes, you let out a breathy chuckle, which only made him cock one eyebrow up in either amusement or disbelief, you weren’t sure.

“What the hell is so funny?” He asked, both his tone and his weight easing up a bit.

His mistake.

“Oh, nothing,” you mused, looking up and away from him for a few seconds before flipping you both around, holding him pinned against the wall in the same position, your own eyes glowing their bright red as he let out an annoyed snarl. “Just thinking about how things can change in an instant….”

The breath was knocked out of you as you once again were pinned to the wall, this time his weight almost fully against you to keep you still. “What do you want?” He ground out through clenched teeth.

You couldn’t help thinking that the two of you would have been great friends if it weren’t for both of you being Alpha’s. Pack rivalry and whatnot overriding much of any chance at getting any closer than you were now, which given your position physically, was actually pretty damn close.

Baby steps.

“I have an idea,” you began after letting out a huff. Resigned to being stuck against the wall, you relaxed a bit, deciding to try and placate the Big Bad Sourwolf instead of poking him with a metaphorical stick, no matter how fun the latter was. “It would save both of our packs a lot of hassle, and probably save some innocent lives, too, come to think of it-”

“No,” he said firmly, his hold relaxing just a bit.

You looked at him in shock. “You haven’t even heard-”

“I said no!” His voice just as firm as before, he pushed off the wall for emphasis, your body relaxing just slightly, and you rubbed your wrists, despite the fact they were already pretty much healed.

“I’m just trying to be a good leader, Derek, offering you peace and my help for both our sakes and our packs, but because of whatever vendetta you have for me, you’re not willing to listen. Well, you know what? Forget it. You fucking suck.”

Stalking toward the loft door, Derek grabbed your elbow firmly and lightly tugged you to face him, making you roll your eyes again. “What, Hale?”

“I know. Look, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what it is I don’t like about you, I just don’t.”

“Gee, thanks,” you mumbled, looking down at your feet as you fiddled them absently.

Grabbing your shoulders to make you stand still again, you straightened your back and looked him in the eye. It wasn’t the gesture that caught your attention, but the gentleness in it. A new side of Derek Hale had just showed itself, a side you always thought was there, but never got to see, except when he was interacting with his pack.

Very small baby steps.

“But,” he continued pointedly, “I’m willing to put that all aside to listen, for our packs and everyone involved.”

“You’ll really hear me out?” You hated how small your voice sounded.

“I’ll try my hardest.” He smiled a real, genuine smile, and you felt some of the ice crack between you two.

You returned the grin with a small one of your own, before finally saying, “Don’t be an asshole. Asshole.”

Derek laughed, and let go of your shoulders, walking back into the loft, and after a few seconds, you followed him. Looking over his shoulder, he smirked and said, “I’m just trying to be nice.”

You scoffed, then let out a chuckle. "I'd kill you on the spot if you weren't so nice to look at. Because, full offense, your personality needs a lot of work."

Sitting on the couch, he spread his arm out in gesture to the open spot beside him, his own smirk still firmly in place. “So I’ve been told.”

Xxx

Waking up to the wee hours of the morning and a silent loft, you looked around bleary eyed. Once you realized where you were, and who was with you, your eyes went wide.

Laying on the far end of the couch, his legs tangling with yours in the middle at some point while you were both asleep, was Derek, head propped up on the arm of the couch, mouth wide open as a snore escaped him.

You couldn’t contain the giggle from the completely uncharacteristic image of the big bad Hale Alpha, and turned into the couch cushion to smother the sound.

It was only a second later you looked back, but you still jumped as now Derek was looking at you with one eye barely cracked open, his mouth closed in a tight line, but his eyebrow raised in what you now understood was amusement.

Lightly swatting his leg with your own, he said a mock “ow”, but neither of you untangled your legs.

Propping your elbows on the arm of the couch behind you, you glared at him. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?”

You swatted at his legs again, and he did the same, both of you grinning lightly.

“Did the alarm go off or something?” He lazily looked to a box on the wall that must have been some sort of baddie alarm, his hand going to the back of his neck to scratch sleepily. Contented with what he saw, he looked back at you, stilling, hand still on his neck. “What?”

“Why do you assume I woke you on purpose? Why would I put myself in a position to endure even more of your company than I have already had today, which, by the way, is I think more than we have had at once ever?”

He grinned. “You didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood’.”

You shrugged, smirking right back at him. “You got a cute butt.”

“Why, thank you,” he said cheekily, his grin doing the same.

Batting his legs again lightly, you heard him mutter, “Okay, that’s it,” and you suddenly found yourself pulled toward him, until you were basically straddling him, your wrists once again tightly held in his hands.

“Stop doing that.” His voice was firm, but soft. His eyes searched your face, but for what, you didn’t know.

Digging your knees into his rib cage, just as some sort of retaliation, he groaned softly at the pressure. You leaned down close to his face and whispered, “Make me.”

Suddenly faster than you could blink, your positions had been flipped, him now straddling you, holding you down. “Okay.”

Trying to fight back, you quickly gave up, huffing, much like earlier in the day, looking up at him with a less than enthusiastic look.

Searching your face again with his eyes, he finally landed on your gaze with knit eyebrows.

Raising yours in question, he let go of your wrists, but you left them beside your head, and he sat back on his haunches, your legs still under him.

“I’m trying to figure out what it is about you that drives me so crazy.”

“I have that effect on lots of people,” you said smugly. “I’m awesome like that.”

“That! That’s it.” He pointed at you, and you sat up, elbows once again on the arm of the couch, eyebrows once again raised in confusion. “Yeah, you drive me crazy, but I’m starting to think it’s not because we hate each other or annoy each other-”

“Are you sure? Because you’re kinda driving me insane just a little bit right now-”

He leaned back over you on your perch on the armrest, face closer than it ever had been, and you found yourself staring at his lips. “Am I?”

If it hadn’t been the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice with those last two words did it. Your eyes drifted shut when he finally met you with a kiss, surprisingly soft and tentative given the tension between you two.

But that was just the first one.

Pulling back just enough to look at you one more time, something was exchanged between you without words and you both surged forward in a heated kiss.

Slowly laying back down all the way, your hands briefly in his hair to make sure this never stopped, pulling him with you, his hands grabbed your wrists putting them by your head like before, but this time trailing his fingers lightly from your elbows up to your hands, fingers tangling with yours as he held your hands.

Instead of restricting, his weight now felt warm, and inviting, and the more of it you felt, the more you wanted.

Turning your head to the side, you had a small grin on your face, but it soon turned into a soft gasp as you felt his lips ghosting ever so lightly over your skin, working from your collarbone, up your neck, and to your ear, where he bit the lobe gently.

When he released it after a second, you turned your head to look at him, lips barely touching one another’s, foreheads pressed together, and heavy breaths being shared, almost as if the breath one was breathing out was what the other required to live.

Xxx