Morgan always feels his bravest when he has Reid and Hotch at his back. Together they are stronger; as a team they are quicker, smarter, better.
That’s not the reason that Morgan is glad to have them there when he comes home at night.
When it’s late (or when it’s early and they’ve been crossing state lines all night) there’s nothing that compares to stripping down to his boxers and crawling into bed with the pair of them. Reid sleeps in the middle, alternately curled into a tight ball or spread out long and gangly depending on what kind of day they’ve had. Morgan presses up tight against him on one side with Hotch loose and relaxed on the other. In the dim half-light of their bedroom, similar thoughts run through all their minds: blood and death, the ache of lost lives. Even the success stories in their line of work all start with at least one lost soul. Maybe there is no such thing as a happy ending.
Quiet and careful, Hotch hushes them as if someone had actually been speaking. He runs his fingers through Reid’s hair, but his gaze connects with Morgan: it’s easier to comfort Reid, because he’s able to take it, but it’s meant for them both. Morgan can sleep easy with that knowledge, lost in the heat of their skin and soothed by the gentle rhythm of their breathing. In the quiet of their bedroom, the real world seems a long distance away. Work can wait. Death can wait. The only thing that won’t is sleep.
