Work Text:
Static needles across your skin, tiny pricks pulling you from slumber. Your eyes shoot open, a brief moment of panic as the wall in front of you isn't yours, before you remember you didn't go home to sleep. You're in Ortega's apartment. In his bed. With him.
And he's… whimpering?
"Ry, no, stop…"
You twist in the sheets. Difficult when they're already knotted tight from him tossing and turning. Static shocks crack and illuminate the room like tiny lightning bolts. You shiver, hair standing on end. The complete lack of outlets on the wall behind his gargantuan bed suddenly makes a lot more sense.
How long has he been dreaming?
"Ric," you call, feeling louder than you should in the darkness, unsure if you should touch him. "Wake up, you're having a nightmare."
He throws an arm out like he's reaching for something, sobs, and an idea of what he's dreaming about punches you right in the gut.
You give his shoulder a firm shake, ignoring the charge that runs up your arm. You've taken far worse from him as Reckoning.
"Ric, please, wake up!"
He bolts upright out of your grip with an anguished yell that rips your heart apart. Stares wide-eyed and unseeing, unmoving, gasping for breath. The static fades quickly, darkening the room again, but the stink of singed ozone lingers around you.
"... Ric?" you call after his breathing eases. It takes time to regain yourself, you know that intimately. But no one's ever woken you from a nightmare. You aren't sure what exactly to do.
There's just enough light creeping in between his blinds that you can see him turn towards you.
"Riley?" he croaks your name. The bed shifts and strong arms crush you to his chest.
You stiffen at first, instinct stealing your control, then adjust, one hand ruffling through his unruly curls, the other stroking his broad back. He exhales a shuddering sob in the crook of your neck, now damp with his tears.
"It's okay," you murmur. "I'm here."
"You died," he whispers, voice cracking.
Does he mean in the dream or reality? Both? It probably doesn't matter.
"I did," you agree and his grip tightens, breath hitches. "But I'm back now."
This has been a long time coming, you think. Hints of it peeking through in the way he's looked at you, held you, refused to let you disappear on him since he found you in that diner. Simultaneously feels like yesterday and half a lifetime ago.
So you hold him now. Whisper soothing nothings in his ear like he does for you when you crack. Let him get it out. Tell him it'll be okay.
It probably won't be. But that's a lie future you has to deal with.
"Sorry," he says hoarsely when he finally draws back a little. "Did I shock you?"
"A little," you admit. You stop him before he can pull back further, guilt written clear in his action. "I'm okay, really. Are you?"
"I'll get there." There's an attempt at a smile in his voice. "First time you actually spend the night and I fall apart on you."
"If you hadn't done it, I probably would have." You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs stroking his beard, and press a kiss to his forehead. "Thanks for taking one for the team."
He laughs, shaky. "What can I say, I'm a giver."
He is, too much, too freely. You hold his heart in your hands and it's all you can do to keep yourself from reciprocating. Or you try. Who are you trying to kid, exactly? You already admitted to loving him.
Fuck.
He steals a kiss of his own in your distraction. Soft and languid. He's managed to calm down. You let him pull you back down onto the pillow with him. He draws you in close, forehead pressed to yours. Sharing breaths. Hands knotted together.
You lie with him quietly, not sure which of you will drift off again first.
A stiff exhale on your nose and then a quiet, "Can I ask you something, Ry?"
"You can ask," you murmur, sleepy. The unvoiced stipulation of a possible nonanswer lingers between you.
"What did it… when you tried to—"
"No."
You should have expected this line of questioning from his nightmare. But you still don't want to talk about it. That you who couldn't resist, who gave in to the digging that pulled all your self-loathing out of the recesses of your mind and the pressure to end it all, who made you taste metal and then glass, is dead.
What's left is stronger now.
"Do you still want to…" he drifts off in uncertainty. Might not want to hear the answer.
"Sometimes." A small part of you wants to make him regret asking.
He flinches, his grip on your fingers tightens. Like if he doesn't let go, he could pull you above water if you start to sink again. It's nice to think that he can.
"It's… less frequent now," you elaborate, softening the blow. "You help. Argent helps. Chen and Spoon, and Daniel, too. Much as I hate to admit it… Dr. Finch helps. Besides, I still have too much I need to—"
You break off, swearing mentally at yourself. It's too easy to slip, say too much, when you're this tired. When he's too comfortable to be around.
"What do you need to do?" Of course he asks. Softly, earnestly, and fuck, what if you did tell him? A question you've asked yourself a thousand times since starting this crusade.
"It's not important," you quickly lie. Still can't chance it. Don't want to ruin what you have, not now.
He doesn't buy it, of course. You don't need to see his face to feel his skepticism. But he lets it go. For now, at least.
"Will you… talk to me before it gets to be too much? Please?" he pleads quietly.
"I'll try." It's the best you can promise.
He shifts, lips press to yours, damnably gentle. "I love you, you know?" he mumbles.
"I know. Me too." Tears prick unbidden at the corners of your eyes. Too soft. Too much what you need to hear. Too hard to say it back right now, you haven't been able to since your accidental confession. You roll over, can't take the look in his eyes even when you can't see it.
He pulls you back against his chest, tight like you'll slip away again. Maybe a little too tight, but the pressure is grounding, welcome, warm, and you relax into the embrace.
"You'll be here when I wake up, right?" He buries his face in the hollow of your shoulder. The beard tickles.
You can give him relief from that worry, at least. "Yeah. You promised me breakfast."
He chuckles, rumbling against your back. It's a good enough answer to relax him and his grip. Let you both get back to sleep.
It'll be better in the morning.