Criminal Minds Imagines

stay, stay, stay | derek morgan

first derek fic !!

"You call her baby girl. Mama. Sugar. Insert any nickname that's inappropriate for someone other than your girlfriend! Derek, you can't stand there and tell me you're not in love with her!"

"I'm not in love with Penelope, y/n! She's my best friend, nothing more! You know that!"

"Oh, do I, chocolate thunder?"

You and Derek are on opposite sides of the room. Both of your faces are hot, your hearts pounding, voices raised to an uncommonly loud volume. And both of you are angry. Unbelievably, stupidly, some might say irrationally angry. But neither of you can stop.

Instead, you throw your phone across the room at him. Derek's instincts intervene and he dodges the object, watches it crash into the wall behind him. He stares at you.

"y/n, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I can't do this right now," you reply, and stalk into the bedroom. Slam the door shut, leaving Derek alone in the living room to clean up the mess.

—

With the morning comes embarrassment. The curtains hadn't been closed last night, and sunlight streams into the bedroom. It invades every corner of the room, forcing your brain to acknowledge it and your eyes to adapt. You'd rather remain asleep than awake, and you throw an arm over your face with a groan.

It does nothing to block the light, nor the memories of the night before. Your heart sinks.

Derek.

The bed is empty beside you, another reminder of your stupidity. Its sheets are uncharacteristically cold, the other pillow flat, the blankets isolated to your side of the bed. A sigh escapes your mouth as you stretch. Disentangling yourself from the sheets, you slip on your lucky socks. You'd need them for this conversation.

There's a hush over the apartment, and you leave the bedroom door open. An invitation.

"Derek?" Your voice is soft, testing the waters. You don't know what his reaction will be, where he slept last night. Will he still be angry? Did he sleep at Penelope's? Did he get called in for a case and you didn't get to say goodbye?

The last question hurts the most, but the sting is removed with a "Yeah." It came from the couch.

There, you find sleepyhead Derek without a pillow but with a rumpled blanket, arm tucked beneath his head. It's a rare morning that you're both home, but you don't get a second to cherish it. Instead, you have to face the music. You can't meet his gaze. You'd rather look down at your feet, and so you do.

His eyes follow yours, and he laughs. "Lucky socks?"

"Lucky socks," you murmur, and find the courage to sit on the floor, leaning against the couch. "We should talk about last night."

"Give me a second," he says. Derek shifts on the couch, and you move to let him stand. He walks into the bedroom, disappearing from view. The longer he's gone, the more you worry. You sit on the couch and fold the blanket, busying your hands in an effort to busy your mind.

You barely breathe until he returns, Chicago Bears football helmet on his head. The smile's evident in his voice as he says, "Okay, let's talk."

Your laugh is shaky, almost breathless. The gesture might be funny if it didn't remind you of the broken phone, how you'd wanted to hurt him. How you'd screamed. "Derek..."

"I know, I know." He takes off the helmet and sets it on the coffee table, gently sitting beside you. "You were saying."

"I've never felt like this before," you confess, nerves rearing their ugly head and suppressing the volume of your voice. "It's terrifying. I don't want to be jealous—"

"Honey, it's understandable—"

"But I am! Because when you're gone, you're with her on a case, and I'm at home, worrying if you're safe. It's stupid, you're always careful, and nicknames are just something that you and Penelope do, but..." you exhale, inhale. Exhale again. Breathe. Remember to breathe. "I'm just scared."

"Scared of what, sweetheart?" Derek's hands capture yours, running his thumbs over the backs of your hands. The fight wasn't about Penelope. It was never about Penelope, but fear loves to manifest and disguise itself as anger.

"Losing you, dummy." Your eyes sting, and you blink to hide the evidence of your tears. He sees them anyway, and brings one of your hands up to his mouth for a kiss. "I never want to lose you. You're it for me, you know? And I'm not just saying that because you carry my groceries."

He laughs, but you're not finished. "You've memorised me. My favourite colour—"

"Green."

"My hopes—"

"The Angels winning another World Series."

"Derek." You glare at him, and he grins at you. "I mean, you make me feel..."

Derek's hands slide up your arms, and you forget how to breathe, how to think. "You... I feel..." 

His fingers push through your hair, caressing your face. You can't help but lean into the pressure, sighing as he presses a kiss to your forehead. Your arms are around his waist, palms flat against his back.

Your tongue finds the words. "Like I'm home."

He grins at that, his lips meeting yours. You're forgiven, but the fear of losing him remains. The thought of him leaving for good, of walking away or forcing you to walk away, is almost too much to bear. So you beg.

"Stay." Each kiss is a prayer, a plea. "Stay. Stay."

Ever the profiler, he sees your fear and shame and desperation. And he answers.

"I'm staying, sweetheart."