concussion

Notes: I am trying to downsize my WIP folder. I was going to try to make this a whole story, but it just isn't there. Still cute and very simple. Morgan has a concussion and he's very very sweet. That's it...somewhere in the ballpark of 820 words. (Hotch/Morgan)

“Do you even know how gorgeous you are?” Morgan asks, closing his eyes and smiling. His words are slow and languid, they flow one into another so easily and Hotch feels warmth spread in his belly. He doesn't answer. “Seriously. Do I tell you enough? I don't think I tell you enough...”

Morgan has a concussion. He's been on the couch all morning, somewhere between dizzy laughter and deep coma naps. It's been easy enough for Hotch to maneuver around him, fix him food and hide away the television remote and his headphones for the time being. Everything in the apartment is quiet except for the occasional startling admission made while half asleep and drunk on the swirl of a head injury. The hour before, he'd asked Hotch what he thought about the colors in Penelope's apartment...no reason, just a question. By the time Hotch had come up with a diplomatic answer, he'd closed his eyes and was done with it.

With that in mind, Hotch turns himself away and sucks in a shaky little breath, lets a soft smile dance over his lips. He can't help it. He also can't help fumbling with the dishes he's washing and flinching as a fork clatters noisily into the sink.

“Aaron?”

“You're concussed,” he says softly, refusing to turn around and let Morgan know he'd succeeded in making him a little flustered. “Can't trust your eyes.”

Morgan laughs, a deep sound that vibrates through him and hurts his ribs. His eyes lazily trail Hotch through the kitchen, watching as he spreads peanut butter and jelly onto soft pieces of bread and presses the dinosaur shaped cutter into them for fun. Jack isn't even there; he's just injecting some humor into an otherwise bleak situation...it was either stegosaurus sandwiches or think about how near Morgan had been to dying. He chose the dinosaurs.

They're going to eat in bed, that's the deal. Hotch hated food in the bed, but without the crusts of the sandwiches there was less chance of crumbs. He stood and nibbled on the dry crusty bits while Morgan shuffled toward the bedroom, eagerly awaiting his treats. It wasn't really about the food in bed, it was about having enough space that Hotch would sit there with him. He was too good at giving him space when he didn't want it. He'd asked Haley to keep Jack for the weekend, give them some time to nurse Morgan's injuries without a kid jumping on broken ribs, and without having to worry about whether he would get away with convincing them Grape Nuts on ice cream was an appropriate breakfast item again but even still Morgan missed him. Trickery and all. The place was too somber without his laughter.

The thing Hotch refuses to admit is that he was in the car too. Morgan can see it in the way he walks too stiff, too slow like every movement is taxing; he's hurting too. It's not so bad, he insists if Morgan asks, just sore. The issue of his back already being bad after the bomb in New York, after a multitude of reckless endeavors is quickly cut short. Can I get you anything? He'll ask, changing the subject.

Before getting into the bed, Morgan slips over to the dresser for Hotch's heating pad. He plugs it in and sets it in Hotch's spot, maybe a little too close to him, and turns on the heated blanket. He can get it from both sides, and he won't be so inclined to get back up, it's like an insurance policy. The book on Hotch's nightstand finds its way to his pillow, a silent invitation. By the time Hotch comes into the bedroom with two plates of the dinosaur shaped sandwiches and a bowl of purple grapes that look like shimmering jewels, he sees the trap that's been laid and sighs.

“Derek...”

“Please?”

He doesn't have a counter for this kind of warfare. Hotch sets the plates down on their nightstands and kicks out of his jeans, he hates sitting in the bed in them. In nothing but a polo and boxer shorts, he slips under the blankets and his body instantly relaxes into the warmth. His back had been screaming at him all morning, and he'd done a fine job of ignoring it until now...until his muscles lay against the gentle heat and he all but melts into it. Morgan isn't hungry, not right now, though the sandwich does look adorable. Instead of eating, he slips over to him and rests his head on Hotch's thigh happily. With a smirk, Hotch raises his book up and rests his arm on the back of Morgan's shoulder, gets himself comfortable and forgets lunch.

He won't admit it out loud, but he's glad to be resting, too. A nap doesn't sound terrible to him.

“You know, it should hurt my feelings that you want me to read my boring book to put you to sleep...”

“Just want to hear your voice...” Morgan says, playing sweet and coy. He smiles and kisses Hotch's thigh. “Love your voice.”

“Yeah, right.”