Work Text:
“…Nah, I don’t buy that for a second. Nice try, though.”
The first time Derek reaches out to pat your shoulder with a chuckle, playful taunt bringing a grin to your face, it takes a second to sink in. He’s already moved on from the casual display of affection, cheerily swilling the coffee around in his mug as he reaches his desk, but you find yourself racing to catch up with what’s just happened. He’d been so gentle; two quick pats on your right, briefly squeezing, before letting go. You blink and try to drive the fog from your head. Damn. You didn’t realise it was this bad.
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It’s another week of oversized jumpers, sleep deprivation, and coffee-cradling before a similar incident happens. Penelope hugs you in the morning, at seven am in the pouring rain by the BAU’s door, not one minute after you’ve stepped off the jet. You’re wet, tired, and exhausted; but she’s there, ray of sunshine personified, sweeping you into her arms and asking how the flight was. Her hair & cardigan are too soft, her jewellery chiming as she places her hands on your shoulders and looks at you - you’re so glad she’s not a profiler, because the thought of her realising how close to happy tears she’s brought you is mortifying. Your expression passes as exhaustion to her, and for that you’re grateful. She offers to take your overnight bag as you stride down the hall, ready to make the routine post-case coffee run, and you thank the powers that be for Penelope Garcia.
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Emily pauses mid-sentence to tuck a strand of hair away from your face, fingers brushing your temple, and you pray she’s not picking up on your microexpressions as you try desperately hard not to visibly fluster, try not to dwell on how part of you wants her to pick up on them.
You nod at what she’s saying, trying to keep listening, trying not to let your hand drift to your temple. It does anyway. Fuck.
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J.J.’s exhausted, you know she is. This case has been rough for her. The drive from the police station to the motel is another half hour, and it’s nearly one in the morning. Hotch is almost asleep at the wheel, and Derek’s passed out by the window. Rossi’s in the middle of trying to persuade Hotch to rescind his night driving privileges, but the exact words are lost on you, because J.J.’s just leaned her head into your shoulder, her eyes closed. The middle passenger seat is never comfortable (you envy Spencer & Emily’s spacious BMW, which trails behind you) , and your left leg is starting to go to sleep. Nonetheless, shifting your position seems like a very bad idea. You lean a little to your right, knee bumping Derek’s (he doesn’t notice, thank God), and try to make sure J.J’s not going to slip forward as the car pulls over so Rossi & Hotch can switch seats.
Half an hour later, when the car pulls into the motel, you wake up from a nap you didn’t realise you were having, and freeze. Your head is resting against J.J’s.
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“So this map shows the unsub most likely-oh.”
Spencer’s hand is on your shoulder, suddenly. It stops you dead in your tracks. He’s right next to you, pointing out the route you’re referring to with his finger. You try to continue. “Uh- most likely cut the victims off…here, after coming off of the slip road…” Keeping a hold of your sentence is a losing battle. Reid’s nodding, circling relevant points and seeing invisible connections, distracted for now. He’s going to notice you’re hesitating if you don’t do something. As much as it pains you, you move away, sipping your coffee for a second until words come back to you.
“Sorry- as I was saying-”
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“Can I do your hair?”
“Hm?” You did technically hear what Penelope said, but you'd rather pass off your surprise for sleep-deprivation induced inattention. She’s in early - mentioned something about needing the bakery’s freshest chocolate croissants - and it’s another half hour till everyone will get in. 7:30 is not the greatest time to be proofreading a report, but you want to get it done. Penelope hasn’t questioned it.
“Can I do your hair?”
“Uh, yea, sure.” This is absolutely going to mess up your focus. This is a mistake. But it’s Penelope, and it’s 7:30, and you’re tired-
Her hands start at your scalp, sectioning off two parts of your hair, and you stiffen. She’s slowly working her fingers through the lengths of the hair she’s gathered, checking for tangles. It’s careful, methodical, rhythmic. Sometimes your hair gets caught and tugs slightly, but she always stops, apologises, detangles, continues. There are tears almost coming to your eyes but it’s too early to cry, you tell yourself, work hasn’t even started yet, and…you realise your eyes have slipped shut.
Garcia hasn’t commented on it if she’s noticed. Which she probably has, considering you don’t type - or proofread, for that matter - with your eyes shut.
She gives you a chocolate croissant when she’s done. You hope your voice doesn’t sound noticeably thin when you thank her.
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You’re not expecting Emily to poke you in the sides when you’re checking the kettle’s plugged in. Emily apparently hasn't considered this as a possibility, because her look of surprise when you recoil with a squeak that a kinder person might call a yelp certainly suggests as much. She laughs, apologises, pats you on the back. It’s enough dopamine to get you through the day.
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Someone speaks next to you on the jet. It must be early - or late, you don’t know. All you know is that it’s dark, and you’re tired, and it’s been weeks since you’ve had a hug. Your body aches, chest hollow, hands cold even with a jumper and pillows. They’ve always been cold. You were sleeping, you think, though you don’t remember nodding off - you don’t want to open your eyes. There wasn’t a person next to you before. Someone must’ve moved.
“Another hour or so-” that’s Spencer’s voice, trying to be quiet. You realise with a start that it’s coming from close above you.
“Wh-” you open your eyes - it’s still dark, but there’s enough light for you to realise you’re leaning on Spencer’s shoulder. Oh. “Ssorry, sorry, didn’t-”
“It’s okay.” Spencer's arm comes to rest around your shoulders, his hand rubbing your shoulder, and it’s impossible to stop the fatigued sigh that escapes. His jumper’s soft, and the fuzziness that comes with fatigue makes you far more inclined to snuggle into him. You hesitate, not sure whether it's the time to be vulnerable around the team - but the thoughts get jumbled by your tiredness, and it’s you decide it's easier to wrap your arms around him and worry about consequences later.
Eventually, the jet’s bumpy landing wakes you up, and Spencer’s still there, muttering something about a movie to J.J. You can feel the rhythm of his breathing from where you’re resting your head in the crook of his shoulder, and suddenly it all hits you at once. Reid must feel you shift, because he pauses his conversation with J.J. to put his hand on your arm.
“Hey. We’re here.”
You let out a half sleepy, half tearful little noise of acknowledgement, and hug him a little tighter. His hand pats your back and you can't stop your eyes from tearing up a bit.
“Morning,” you mutter, leaning back and trying to wipe your eyes as subtly as possible.
“You okay?”
“Coffee first. You okay?”
“I'm good. Let's get you that coffee.”
You get up, grabbing your overnight bag and avoiding eye contact with the others as you disembark.
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The alcohol’s made you sleepy, which was not the plan at all. Emily cracks a joke, and you duck your head to laugh, accidentally swaying into Morgan’s shoulder.
“Hey, you good?”
“Just tipsy, sorry-”
“S’okay.”
This isn’t the first time you’ve ended up leaning on him. You vaguely hope he hasn’t noticed, but the thoughts are jumbled and distant, too quiet for you to listen to them.
The next time, Morgan’s ready, arm wrapping around your shoulders, keeping you steady. You hold onto his hand, let go, exchange it for wrapping an arm around his shoulders, too. The table chatter continues, and you’re not sure how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for you to mutter a small thank you to Derek, who just smiles.
J.J. links arms with you on the way home that night, and you think for the first time in a while that things might be okay.