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Sitting on his couch in the office was both amazing and terrifying. He could hear and smell like never before, the buzz of electricity and clacking of keys. The conversations people thought were private.
Smell the perfume or cologne of everyone who passed on the chicken chow mein one or the other teams had ordered in.
It was incredible but so, so much and that was without the itching vulnerability he'd had since the ambulance ride. It had only gotten worse at the hospital and returning to the office hadn't helped as much as he'd hoped.
The light click of shoes approached him.
“Cho, too what do I owe your fine company? I’m afraid I may not be to my usual standards.”
He grinned, bravado in full place and heard Rigsby snort.
Listening he could easily hear the agent move and the fainting brush of touch against his hand before it became solid, moving his fingers until he was holding a warm mug.
Confused, he brought it up and sniffed.
It was a spiced soup, one that Cho’s mother had brought to the station before whenever she was worried about her son.
Taking a sip he smiled, it was something none of the other agents had tried, himself also. It was for family only. The quiet declaration was so typical of Kimball that it made the ball of warmth in his chest somehow grow as he took another sip, beautiful flavour exploding on his tongue.
“Thank you Kimball.”
The use of the agent’s name was deliberate, both to let the man know how much he genuinely appreciated the gesture, and to listen as the other members of the office lost their collective minds.
Rigsby began whispering furiously, obviously thinking Patrick wouldn't hear. He was sure he would even if he weren't currently blind.
Van Pelt's own replying whispers were of pure confusion and shock and from somewhere across the room he was sure he could hear Lisbon choke on the coffee she'd just retrieved.
Kimball of course just sat at his desk, getting back to work and if, behind that mug, Jane's smile became that little bit softer and more personal, no one else needed to know.
Late that night, after the excitement of nearly being shot he was dreading sleep. Going home wasn’t an option, not when he felt so unsafe but every noise, no matter how familiar, seemed like a scream in the creeping quiet.
Once again his attention was drawn to those almost too quiet footsteps that spoke of stealth, turning his head to the man as best he could.
Again there was a soft touch on the back of his hand before it became firm and inviting.
Patrick happily followed to stand and felt his face grow warm when his hand was carefully tucked into the crook of the agent’s elbow. Damn you Kimball.
It was no surprise to the consultant when he was led to a car.
Rather than just guiding him into the seat the brilliant man opened the door before placing the blond’s hand on the upper door frame.
It was such a simple thing, but in his impaired state it meant the world.
So did the way he laid out a change of clothes so Patrick could easily do it himself. The way he gently told him the layout of whichever room they were in. Made something that could be easily eaten without making a mess and left the TV on at a low hum that was comforting rather than distracting.
Lastly Kimball told him where he could sleep. The couch, the spare room or with him.
There was no expectation, no right choice. Patrick could tell from the other's voice that regardless of his decision he'd still be welcome.
This time falling asleep in Kimball's arms was more of a conscious decision, not one brought about by exhaustion and overwrought emotions. It felt even better.
Maybe he shouldn't have, but he decided to enjoy the moment to the fullest.
Nuzzling into the agent's neck he breathed in deep lungfuls of his scent, clean and oddly sharp, cool, all the while his hand gently glided over the younger's skin feeling the soft fuzz of hair and harsh breaks of scars.
That's how he fell asleep, surprisingly nightmare free.
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Kimball woke to an empty bed and carefully made his way through the apartment, only to pause in the door.
It hadn't felt right to appreciate Jane in full when the man had been so vulnerable but seeing him now, in a pale blue sweater that exposed a golden collar bone contrasting with the just a little short grey sweatpants.
He looked fucking adorable, happily analysing the photos on the wall, sipping a cup of tea he cradled like it was liquid gold.
Kimball knew he was royally screwed, had known since Tijuana, but he found that he didn't mind, not when it made moments like this happen.