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He swears that he hasn’t been asleep for more than twenty minutes when her muffled whimpers startle him back to into wakefulness. His eyes react ahead of his brain, snapping open and searching for her in the dim light of the bedroom before he becomes fully alert.
They’ve not been doing this long - the sleeping together thing, the whole relationship thing - but his inner voice often whispers to him in quiet moments that, actually, they’ve been inching towards this since the day she showed up in Vegas. He’s learned not to ignore that voice, seeing as how it’s usually right - especially when it comes to her.
Having her here, in his apartment - for the whole night - is a very new development, indeed. They’re taking this slow, not wanting it to blow up in their faces - and not wanting to tip off anyone else in the department. But Greg can’t deny that he’s greedy, and now that he’s had a taste of what it’s like to really be with her (and he doesn’t just mean the sex - he’s glad that she’s finally seemed to let him fully behind the emotional walls she so rigorously maintains), he’d like to have her here more often.
But at the moment, he just wants to help her through whatever is apparently causing her to have what sounds like a violent nightmare. Carefully, attempting not to startle her, he rolls over and gently slides his hand down her arm in an attempt to soothe her. She’s flailing in her sleep, choked sobs now having replaced the whimpers, and each one tears at his heart a little bit more.
Cautiously, he slips his arm around her waist and rolls her towards him, the action finally seeming to startle her awake, but she continues to roll around, trying to wriggle out of his arms. Gently, barely speaking above a whisper, he tries to catch her attention. “Morgan, hey, hey…Morgan. Look at me - just breathe, okay?” She finally looks at him, panic in her eyes for a split second - and he can see the instant she registers where she is and who she’s with. The tension leeches out of her muscles in one fell swoop, and he can feel her curl into his chest, tucking her head just below his chin.
They’re pressed so tightly together that he can feel the rapid tattoo of her heartbeat, still racing even though she seems to have relaxed. He sweeps his hands up and down her back in soothing strokes. “Do you want to talk about it?” he offers quietly.
She exhales slowly before murmuring back to him. “Um…want is not really the word…” she trails off before he hears her huff out a wry laugh. “…but maybe I need to.” She pauses for a moment, and when she speaks again, he can’t say he’s totally surprised by what she says. “It was…uh…it was what happened with Tarland, and…and…”
“…and Ellie,” he finishes for her grimly, pulling her even more tightly to him without fully realizing it. He feels her nod. “Have you been having nightmares about it often?” This time he feels her shrug.
“Sometimes,” she whispers, tilting her head up to look at him, her eyes barely visible in the darkness of the room. “More often than I’d like.” He feels her arm slide around his waist and her hand inch up his back under his shirt, her palm pleasantly warm against his skin. “I mean…it’s stupid, isn’t it? Tarland’s dead and Ellie’s locked up…I shouldn’t be worried about it, right?”
He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You know your subconscious doesn’t work like that.”
“Yeah, I do,” he can feel her fingers tracing contemplative patterns up and down his ribs. She sighs again, more loudly this time. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to fall back asleep anytime soon.”
He leans up on one elbow, peering at the digital clock on the bedside table behind her. It’s green display is lit up showing the ungodly hour of 2:07 a.m. He looks back down at her, a smile curling the edges of his mouth. It’s a good thing neither of them are on shift the next day. “Well, you know what that means, don’t you?”
“What?” she asks, and he can hear the matching smile in her own voice.
He rolls away from her then, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up. “We’re finishing that Rat Pack movie marathon, or at least getting through one more movie…c’mon. You get the beers, I’ll pop the popcorn.”
Though she whines about it a bit as they settle down on the couch to watch the original Ocean’s Eleven, and balks a little at Robin and the 7 Hoods, he knows she secretly loves the old movies as much as he does. They’re both curled up, snoring gently and nightmare-free, by the time 4 for Texas starts to play.