Work Text:
Mouray is asleep.
That shouldn’t be surprising. People sleep. Most people even sleep semi-regularly, but it hasn’t quite stopped feeling like a dream, having him here. Sharing Ortega’s home. His space. His life.
He ignores the infomercial running quietly in the background in favor of studying the man beside him. It’s rare that he gets to look at Mouray without compunction. Rarer still that he gets to see him relaxed like he is now.
His hair is a mess, as usual. Mouray has bed head 24/7 and it always makes Ortega itch to look at, torn between the urge to comb it and the desire to muss it up worse. Tangle his fingers in the red strands and tug it into as many shapes as Mouray will let him.
So not many. He has the urge to run his fingers through it now but he doesn’t want to wake him. He grins instead, fondness and disbelief fighting for space in his chest.
Mouray frowns in his sleep, like he can tell Ortega is amused at his expense even while unconscious. Ortega has to smother a laugh in his throat.
The half full beer in Mouray’s hand is threatening to tip over if he slumps any further into the couch. Rescuing it would be the smarter choice for the upholstery but Ortega lets it ride. He’s taken bigger risks for much less. Hell, he’d probably replace the carpet in exchange for more nights like this.
It still feels like he’s going to wake up one day and Mouray will be gone like he was never back. Some days it even seems more likely than this. The idea that they could somehow carve out a place where they could be happy still feels like a pipe dream, but the warmth against Ortega’s shoulder is real. The weight of Mouray is solid and grounding. And besides, there are too many beer bottles on the coffee table for one man.
At least these days.
His heart feels full enough to burst out of his chest like something in one of Angie’s horror films and he can’t stop the laugh that pops out.
Mouray grumbles, something Ortega can’t make out, shifting around on the verge of waking up.
Ortega makes a split second decision, sliding sideways and pulling Mouray with him until they’re both stretched out on the couch, side by side.
He manages to snag the beer bottle right at the edge of disaster and sets it down on the floor in relative safety. Small favors.
Ortega’s feet are propped on one of the arms, his head on the other. He’s slightly too tall for this to be comfortable, but Mouray can stretch out all the way like this, his head pillowed on Ortega’s shoulder, one leg slung over Ortega’s hips and it’s so stupidly domestic.
Mouray would call him an idiot and hit him in the face with a pillow if he were awake but he’s not. He’s asleep, safe, in Ortega’s arms. They did it. Somehow. Despite the odds. Despite the history and the sorrow and the rage, they made it here, to this couch. To the place where Mouray can fall asleep on Ortega’s shoulder, snoring ever so faintly in his ear.
He lets his eyes fall shut, basking in the warmth of it. Just for a second…
+
The first thing Mouray becomes aware of is the wet spot under his cheek.
He’s not quite awake, really. He’s distantly aware of the light in the room being sunlight. Of the fact that it’s morning and he has to piss like nobody’s business. Of the fact that he’s slightly too warm but far too comfortable where he is to do anything about that yet. But he isn’t really awake.
The wet spot under his cheek is from his drool.
Mouray frowns, lifting his head just far enough to rearrange himself into a drier spot, mouth closed, snuggling back down into his spot, when he hears it.
A snicker.
Mouray’s eyes snap open, his mind sharpening into wakefulness all at once.
He becomes aware of several additional things more or less simultaneously.
His spot is not a particularly comfortable blanket and pillow nest, but rather a very cuddly Ricardo. He is still on the couch in Ortega’s apartment, apparently having fallen asleep after dinner. Maybe not his finest moment but certainly not the most pressing concern.
No, not by a long shot. The most pressing concern is the fact that Argent is currently sitting, cross legged, chin in hand, on the coffee table in, smirking. Watching them sleep.
Mouray instinctively tries to read her, to learn how much she saw, how long she’s been there, but her mind is annoyingly focused on the present moment.
On how cute they are snuggled up together. On how adorable they look. On how—
Mouray pulls back from that line of thought like it’s a hot stove, his face on fire with the heat of his blush.
She’s been there a while. Too long. She’s been watching and he didn’t even notice her coming in.
“Sleep well?” Her grin might as well be a razor for how cutting it is and Mouray can’t decide whether to throw himself off the couch and leave or to bury his face deeper in Ortega’s chest and pretend she doesn’t exist for as long as possible.
“Shut up,” he grumbles, but even he can hear how embarrassment undercuts the tone. Sound without fury. Posturing. Fuck.
Fucking Ortega. Fucking beer. Fucking Argent. Fucking—
“I’m just asking,” she says, exaggerated innocence dripping from every syllable. “You looked so cozy tucked in there.”
Mouray doesn’t listen to anything else she’s saying because he caught a thought she didn’t mean him to overhear and he is suddenly scrambling, elbows and knees digging into Ortega who yelps as Mouray lunges at her.
Tries to lunge, anyway. It turns out to be extremely difficult to escape the back of the couch, but he powers through it, desperation driving away any remaining vestiges of sleep or comfort.
“Delete them!” he hisses. “Delete them, delete them, delete them or I swear to god—“
Argent cackles, easily slipping farther away into the apartment while Mouray disentangles himself from Ortega who is making this way more difficult than it needs to be.
“Mo, what the fuck? I was using that spleen,” Ortega groans as Mouray rolls free, knees and elbows bruising against the floor but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t care, yelling over his shoulder as he gives chase.
“She took pictures!”
From behind him, a very baffled Ortega asks, “…so?”
+
It’s objectively a pretty good photo. He can admit that. The early morning light adds a touch of soft focus. Gilds Ortega’s brow and jaw. Catches the gray coming in at his temples that he pretends isn’t there.
His face is relaxed with sleep, his chin tilted down to rest lightly on Mouray’s forehead. His face rests on Ortega’s shoulder, his own features nearly unrecognizable like this. So… peaceful. That’s the only word he can come up with to describe the way he looks.
Ortega’s arm is curled loosely around Mouray’s waist, their bodies fitted together like puzzle pieces to take up exactly as much space as the couch can provide.
In the bottom corner, Argent has drawn a heart and Ortega has added XOXO across the center.
It’s a great photo of a warm, private moment. Under other circumstances, he might even like to look at it, secretly because he would never give Argent the satisfaction of knowing that.
But as Mouray stands in the HQ break room, looking at the fridge where those two assholes have pinned it; all he can think is, “I’m going to fucking kill them.”