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John Casey was a perceptive man.
Well, that was a given. He worked for the NSA, he had to be at least somewhat perceptive. No good spy isn’t at least aware of those around them. Despite this, Casey was at least somewhat aware of his shortcomings.
He could easily tell if you were lying, but hurting was a whole other beast. One that Casey knew he never quite conquered. Feelings weren’t his strong suit. Feelings were a liability that got you killed, or a weakness to exploit. You either keep them close to the chest—that is, if you can’t destroy them all together—or you run the risk of everything collapsing.
It wasn’t frightening, though. It was simply just another fact of the job.
So, maybe, that’s why he took longer than he cared to admit in realizing that something was wrong with Morgan Grimes.
Nothing major. He wasn’t some ticking time bomb like Casey was used to in those he noted something in. It was quiet. Just a little bit out of place, or something seen through frosted glass. While he wouldn’t think much about not noticing anything in the early years of their acquaintance, once the short man moved in, Casey figured, he should’ve been quicker to pick up on things.
He had thought the damn kid was just desperate for approval out of some kind of desire for friendship. The way he would follow Casey, loyal as a dog, and doing whatever he was asked. Quite frankly, Casey found it left a sour taste in his mouth. He could’ve exploited it easily if he wanted to—Morgan had no qualms about dying for Casey. And it unsettled the agent. Because anyone in his situation could. It might’ve been endearing if it weren’t so… something Casey couldn’t quite define.
Because Morgan didn’t just seek approval for his friendship, he seemed to need it for just about everything. “Can I get some water?” “Is it okay if I get some soda at the grocery?” The list went on, and Casey couldn’t fathom why. He seemed like the kind of person who would just do whatever he wanted, so the fact he was so hard the opposite felt wrong to Casey.
He only called out the behavior once. “Can I eat another piece of chicken?” He had asked, and Casey finally broke.
“Grimes, you made the food!” He snapped, gesturing vaguely to the food in front of them, “Why the hell are you asking me?!”
Casey didn’t get an answer for a long moment, with Morgan just staring at him as though he said something so utterly mind-boggling that he couldn’t fathom it. But then, as soon as it came, it had left, and Morgan just nodded quietly to himself, smiling almost sheepishly as he stabbed another piece of chicken and brought it to his plate.
“Right, duh.” He had whispered to himself, as if Casey was no longer there, “I’m allowed.”
The Colonel hadn’t pressed the issue. Maybe he could say he just didn’t care, but if he were honest, he simply didn’t know how to. The kid’s reasons for what he did made no sense to Casey, and he hadn’t the slightest inclination how to ask about it.
So, he simply didn’t.
And if Morgan wanted to talk about it, he never said.
Though, the things he did say were enough for Casey to put some pieces together on his own. Emotional understanding be damned, Casey was a spy. He lived to gather intelligence, and Morgan seemed to thrive on saying just a little bit too much.
Casey honestly couldn’t tell sometimes if he was joking or not. Not when half of the words that Morgan spoke came with a grin, as though it was all funny. Though, maybe Casey wasn’t sure what words of his own were sarcastic or genuine.
“You’re either exceptionally smart, or incredibly stupid.” He had told Morgan.
Morgan had grinned at him. “My father used to say the same thing. Without the ‘smart’ part.”
It was such a small comment, but it stuck out to Casey. He wasn’t even sure why, but it did. And it wasn’t the only one. They were few and far between, but Casey took note of every comment, every reference to things he didn’t know much about.
Oh, so casually, he would note that he was a disappointment. It always caught Casey somewhat off guard. That someone so cheerful would not only think that, but seem relatively unbothered by what they took as their truth.
And the helping. Even when it wasn’t helpful, Casey noticed it. Morgan would do whatever it took to help, regardless of if you wanted it or not. The number of Casey’s inconsequential problems that were somehow fixed, or at least improved, by Morgan was staggering.
Sometimes it was the bigger things. Stepping in on a mission, and somehow managing to be at least somewhat helpful. More often, though, it was things for Casey himself.
Morgan cooked. While Casey couldn’t complain—the kid was actually pretty good at it—something felt wrong about it. And he would do all of the dishes. Despite Casey’s initial assumptions about him, Morgan was quite shockingly tidy.
Some part of Casey noted that Morgan acted like a stereotypical housewife. A bigger part pointed out that it was more than that.
And a part of him that he dreaded silently urged him to just talk about it. Talk to Morgan about it.
Because Casey was a perceptive man. And even more than that, he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t blind. He saw what Morgan was—saw how he was. And he put the pieces together for what they were.
“Grimes.” He barked out, harsher than he meant to, yet still feeling as if it was too weak.
Morgan jumped what must have been at least three feet in the air, whirling around to face him from where he stood in the kitchen, drying the last of the dishes under the quiet of evening. With a loud crash, the plate in his hand hit the tiles of the floor and shattered.
For a brief moment, it was silent. Morgan stared at Casey, who found he could only stare back. And for that brief moment, neither dared to move.
Until Morgan abruptly snapped back to reality, looking down at the plate. “Oh—shit, John, I’m sorry, I’ll—”
Morgan didn’t even hesitate to kneel down and begin picking up the pieces of glass, and Casey couldn’t even move for a moment, though he too snapped back to the world and quickly surged over to him. “Stop, you idiot, you’ll cut yourself!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Morgan spoke swift and soft like a mantra, scooping shards of glass into his hands and depositing them into the trash can that rolled out along its tracks from the cabinet he’d opened.
Casey grabbed Morgan by the wrist, pulling him up from the floor to stand, “No, Grimes, look at me,” he tried to soften his tone, but it was still as harsh as always, “You’re cutting yourself. Stop picking up the glass.”
“I’m not, I didn’t—oh.” His eyes met his hands, which had red streaks dripping slightly. Morgan was quiet for a moment once again, before finally whispering, “Sorry.”
“Fuck—you’re not in trouble!” Casey all but shouted, exasperation seeping into his tone, “Okay? Don’t apologize.”
Morgan nodded silently, and Casey let go of his wrist. Without a word, Casey picked Morgan up by the waste and swiftly put him on the counter, feet hanging off the side. Morgan stayed silent, too, just looking at Casey, and then his hands, and then the glass.
Getting a broom from the closet, Casey quickly dealt with the glass. As soon as the glass was all safely in the bin, he turned to put the broom back. Yet, as he turned to grab the first aid kit from the cabinet, he saw Morgan starting to try and slip off the counter.
“Stay there, Grimes,” he shot him a side glance, “I’ve still gotta fix your hands.”
Morgan silently mouthed an oh, and stayed right where he was, hands hovering with the palms up.
Not a man of emotions, Casey realized he hadn’t any clue what to do. He had meant to, really, but as he looked at Morgan’s hands, he found that he wasn’t capable of anything beyond what he could do with his hands. Fire a gun, strangle a man. Pull glass from Morgan’s hands.
Little shards were somehow already embedded in his fingers and palms. With tweezers and a hand that was somehow less steady than when it was in contact with a rifle, Casey pulled the shards out.
Morgan sucked a breath in through his teeth. Casey winced.
“It’s going to hurt a bit.” He muttered.
“Sorry.”
Once again, Casey found himself right where he started. Except this time, he forced himself down the path he couldn’t quite see through the fog. “Stop apologizing, Grimes. You don’t have to apologize for every little thing.”
“S—” Morgan stopped himself, falling quiet again.
Any other time, Casey might’ve enjoyed the silence. Quiet Morgan was novel. And yet, it unsettled him. So, he forced himself to fill the silence. “It’s fine, by the way. The plate.”
“Oh.” Morgan whispered, almost inaudibly. “My—my hands are okay. I can fix it myself. You can just—just go back to whatever you were doing before.”
Casey couldn’t help the silent chuckle that escaped, “I was coming out here to talk to you anyway. And I’m almost done.”
As if on cue, Casey pulled the last shard of glass from Morgan’s left index finger. Depositing it into the trash, he set the tweezers down, grabbing the bottle of disinfectant.
“Why did you want to talk to me?” Morgan asked quietly, wincing at the sting of disinfectant, “Did I do something wrong?”
Casey fought down a dreadful feeling, “No. I just… I wanted to see if you were doing okay.”
“You—” bewilderment, “You wanted to see if I was doing okay?”
Morgan stared at him with almost no expression detectable, as if his mind had stopped working all together. Casey managed a casual shrug, drying Morgan’s hands with a paper towel until they were no longer dripping wet. And covered in blood.
It was quiet again. The sun had fallen a little lower in the sky, and it had grown dark enough that they probably should’ve turned the lights on, yet neither man did.
“Well, are you?” Casey asked as he wrapped a bandage around Morgan’s left index finger.
Morgan nodded, brows drawn tightly together. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Silence. Casey faltered his bandaging for a brief moment, but quickly resumed. He couldn’t bring the words far enough up his throat to speak, so he stayed silent, giving a grunt as he bandaged the last of Morgan’s cuts.
“John,” Morgan spoke suddenly, flexing his hands a little to test the limits of the bandages, “I’m alright. Did something happen? Some threat or something that got you worried about the team?”
Casey could’ve laughed if it weren’t for the feeling in his stomach that almost hurt. “God, you don’t have to do that.”
Slipping down off the counter, wincing as his weight went onto his hands, Morgan looked up at Casey curiously, though there was an anxious undertone to it. “Do what?”
“You—the fixing thing.” Casey elaborated dumbly, “You aren’t responsible for everyone else’s problems. You always try and fix things for everybody around you.” He paused, “You don’t have to do that.”
Blinking, Morgan simply shrugged. “I like to.”
“What about your own problems?” Casey challenged, crossing his arms.
Morgan merely gave a single laugh, though it was silent. “’My problems’? I don’t have problems, John. My life is going pretty well.”
“Really? Then what’s with the goddamn trauma? That not a problem either?”
The room was silent. In an instant, Casey realized he had gone entirely too far. Maybe it was an understanding of basic emotions that clued him in, or maybe it was the look in Morgan’s eyes. Or the way he took a tiny step back.
Still, Morgan just grinned.
“John, what would I have to be trauma-fied about?” he smiled almost lazily, “Really? I’m me. I’m Morgan Grimes.”
“I don’t know,” he lied, “But you constantly ask for permission, and you fix everyone’s problems, and—fuck, and the plate.”
Morgan blinked at him.
“Morgan, that’s not fine. You aren’t okay.”
It was quiet again. Casey was really growing to hate that silence. Morgan’s smile had long since slipped off his face, and he just looked blank. Hollow. Casey hated it.
Staring at him in a way Casey couldn’t read, the shorter man finally spoke again.
“Oh.” He said softly, “Yeah that’s… yeah.”
His words meant little, but said everything. And Casey understood what he said, even if Morgan didn’t. Even so, they were quiet again. The sun had disappeared, and the moonlight reflected off the faucet behind them.
Morgan tapped his fingers against his leg. “I think I’m going to go to bed. It’s… it’s been a long day.
Casey believed him—what with the burden he bore beneath his eyes. Silently, he stepped aside, and Morgan slipped by. Though, before he could disappear into the hallway, Casey found himself once again calling out. “Hey, G—Morgan?”
Looking at him with an undecipherable look, Morgan stopped, hand on the wall.
“I’m proud of you.”
Morgan blinked, looking away and down the hall. “Oh.” He said, voice drawn down into a whisper that was definably thicker than it had been. “That’s—thanks…”
Casey nodded, saying nothing. As Morgan vanished into the hallway, Casey saw the way his face tightened, and his throat bobbed up and down. And he couldn’t discern how he felt about it.