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"We don't need you to identify the body," says the morgue attendant, "we know who she is," and around them the silver-white hallways of the morgue slip away. Doors pass, and Will wants to check them, search them all for the cold, white body of his partner, to brush back the hair from the wound in her forehead and say goodbye. But the hallways deposit him out in the burning bright sun, the heat, and she's ahead of him, in the police car.
A surge of relief, as he steps up and slides into the passenger seat. "I thought you were dead," he says, with a smile, like, hey, isn't that ridiculous?
She turns to him, and her hair is wrong, he realizes, a gun in her hand. "Drive, Dick," she says, and Will's head turns, twists; he flounders and comes awake at the scrape of a sheet against his palm. He thinks he sees, for a second, the sight of a man instead, lying back on a morgue table while JJ stands beside him, but he blinks the sleep away from his eyes and comes awake all the way, blinking his eyes open in the pale dark. 3:24 AM.
The dreams don't fade away. These ones linger, like a cobweb you can feel brushing across your skin but can't manage to get off of you.
He looks over to JJ, asleep, facing away from him. They fell asleep pressed against one another, and some time during the night, he turned away from her. He hadn't made a sound while he was dreaming; if he had, she'd be awake, already stroking her fingers through his hair.
Carefully, he lifts himself out of the bed, settling the blanket down over JJ's shoulders.
Downstairs, puts the kettle on and slides down into a seat at the table. His fingers interlace over the back of his neck, elbows on the table. The dreams don't really count as nightmares, he thinks. Sure, there's fear, and there's grief and there's memories that rearrange themselves into a terrifying semblance of reality, but they don't wake him up in a cold sweat. Don't make him shake and shiver. They don't make him hate to face the night nearly as much as he hates to face the day.
He worries: about not being enough for JJ, for Henry. About the fact he's a newcomer to the District police force and he's got two dead partners in his past. About the gunshot wound that's only just started to heal. About bills, and going to the grocery store, and the department-mandated therapy that has him facing his own feelings before he knows what they are.
The kettle whistles.
He darts for it, wincing as it knocks the chair noisily against the table leg. Lifts it off of the stand, and pours it into the hot chocolate mix, three quarters of the way. Reaches for the bottle of rum they keep in the cabinet beside the fridge.
"Will?"
He glances up, his eyes resting on JJ. She's an angel, in the doorway. Eyes bleary with sleep, in a loose t-shirt and a soft pair of pajama pants.
"Didn't mean to wake you," he says. Tops off the mug with a little rum, and digs for a spoon to stir it in.
"It's all right," she says. "Dreams?" And she steps forward, slipping into his arms. Her body presses against his, and he sighs out a long breath, tension easing from him that he hadn't been aware he was carrying.
"Dreams," he confirms.
She doesn't say anything like it'll get better or it's okay or I'm here, because he knows them all. No trite words of comfort. Just her fingers, stroking through the hair at the back of his neck. Yeah, it'll get better. And yeah, things are okay, even though they so easily could have been not.
Her other hand slides into his, and he brushes his thumb over her ring finger. The little circle of metal makes him smile, again.
"You want to make me one of those?" she asks, with a nod at the hot chocolate.
"You might have to let me go first," he murmurs, brushing his lips across hers.
"Not a chance."
Her hand is too tight on his, and her laugh is a little forced. He scared her, he knows. He scared the hell out of her.
Their lips meet, briefly, and he pulls back, reaches for another mug.
Hour or two later, he wakes up on the couch, JJ's weight heavy on him. She's draped over his chest, and he sees her outlined: the orange light from the lamp by the couch, the blue light of dawn. He strains, reaches, and flicks the light off. Closes his eyes again.
Doesn't dream.