Chapter Forty

Nate wakes slowly, the way you do on lazy Saturday mornings when you're wrapped in fluffy blankets and can't imagine that there's any better place on earth than right there, warm and safe and snug. Sunlight filters through his eyelids, lighting the world a strange pink-black and he sighs, a small contented hum, and stretches his arm across to Reid's side of the bed.

And then he finally opens his eyes, frowning, because the sheets are empty and cool. They almost always are - Nate likes to sleep in and Reid almost never does - but he'd hoped that this morning would be one of the rare exceptions. One of the days when he could slide across the soft sheets and wrap himself around Reid, push his nose into the crook of his neck and lull himself back to sleep with the comfort of warm skin and the smell of home.

Instead, Nate sits up, the comforter sliding down his chest and pooling in his lap, everything fuzzy beyond the white canopy of mosquito netting draped over the bed. He pulls on boxers and follows his nose to the house's small kitchen where there's coffee brewed and an omelet in a pan on the stove. He pokes it experimentally - still warm.

So, armed with caffeine and food, he strolls out the open double doors onto their deck, or at least the part that they call by that name. The first time Reid used the term Nate had argued because, technically, the whole house is a deck - built on stilts a hundred feet off the island's shore line, the ocean stretching behind and beyond and beneath them.

That's why Nate had fallen in love with it in the first place - the constant rhythm of the waves against the pillars, the salty breeze rolling through the open windows and doors, the sea life he could watch swimming beneath his feet between the boards of the deck.

He knows he will find Reid out here, sitting at the edge of the deck with his feet dangling off the side, the turquoise ocean stretching farther than either of them could have imagined; thousands of miles of mysterious depths, rocking ceaselessly until it ends on the California coastline.

On the first day they came here, weary from traveling for days, going thousands of miles out of the way and taking random flights to make sure they weren't followed, Reid had been unsure about living on a house built out over the ocean. But then he'd stepped out here, onto this deck, and taken one look at the view. It was this deck that made it a home.

It was where Nate had found him that first morning, and it's where he has found him every day since.

Because Reid slides out of bed before dawn nearly every day and sits here, with his coffee and a fishing pole, just quietly watching the sunrise. And Nate knows that some part of Reid is still on the other side of that vast ocean, with Ben and Andy and Kansas, and that it always will be.

For a second, every morning, he hesitates here at the doorway and wonders if he did the right thing. If it wasn't too selfish of him to take Reid away from all of that, to hoard him here in his own little version of paradise.

But then Reid hears his shuffling footsteps on the deck and he turns, his whole face lighting up as he stretches his free hand back to reach for Nate. And there's no trace of regret, of sadness or questioning. It's just love, comfort and contentment. So Nate takes his usual place at Reid's side, silently sipping his coffee and eating his eggs.

The pale morning sunlight warms Nate's face and sinks into Reid's shoulders, making his skin look like honey, golden and delicious. It glitters on the waves until the whole ocean seems to catch fire, swirling turquoise sparks stretching to the distant horizon.

After a few minutes, Reid has reeled in a couple of fish, enough for their dinner, and Nate has enough caffeine in his bloodstream that he can think about something other than curling up and going back to sleep. He sets his empty dishes to the side and leans over, kissing softly over the jut of Reid's collarbone, and Reid cranes his neck to give him better access, his eyes falling closed as he sets the fishing pole to the side.

He made omelets this morning, which Nate has learned means that he's feeling sentimental. It'll be slow this morning, emotional, and in the actual bed.

(Yesterday was french toast, which had led to some very athletic - and tangled-up - sex in the hammock.)

So he stands and leads Reid back into the house, peeling off their boxers (the only clothes either of them bother to put on most days) and lifting the mosquito netting so they can both slide under it, falling back into the fluffy white bedding.

Reid's doing that thing he does more and more often now, where he watches Nate so intently that Nate swears he can feel it, a warm caress that melts him down until he's liquid, pouring across the bed and fitting into the dips and swells of Reid's body, filling the empty spaces surrounding him until they disappear and there's only Reid and then immediately Nate, and the only thing wrong in the entire universe is that they can't just be one complete, endless whole.

They do their best though, Nate's lips grazing at the underside of Reid's jaw as Reid's hands trace the long, tanned planes of Nate's back. Studying the way the sunlight plays with the colors in their eyes from only inches away, until Nate scratches his nails across Reid's hips and it feels so good that Reid's eyes fall closed, so Nate starts drawing constellations of Reid's freckles in his mind, kissing each one he finds, feeling Reid's breath blowing softly against his neck as he does.

Reid turns his head, just a bit, just enough to press his mouth to Nate's neck, and kisses across the sensitive skin. He knows exactly which spots to pay attention to, how to suck and lick and tease to make Nate start to lose that perfect composure. How to make his breath begin to stutter, to get his hips grinding slightly against Reid's before Nate even realizes he's doing it.

And then he moves back up to Nate's face so they can kiss, deep and slow, tangling lips and tongues and teeth until Reid reaches down to wrap his hand around both of them, stroking softly at first, then harder, until Nate is doing little more than gasping against his mouth, his eyes wide and wild and pleading as they lock on Reid's. He's thrusting into Reid's hand, and they've become so familiar with each other, with their tells and tensions and touches, that he knows Nate is feeling the same low tightness, the same electric crawl over his skin that Reid is, and he knows that they're both close.

Reid strokes them faster and then Nate's hand joins his and it feels twice as tight, twice as hot, and it's like a burst of speed pushing closer and closer. He tries to bury his face in Nate's neck when he can feel himself hanging on the edge of the cliff but Nate won't let him, he pulls at the back of Reid's head until they're watching each other, until they can see the moment when their mouths fall open, gasping, and their eyes blow wide, the tension sliding out of their bones and pooling between their bellies, their hands not slowing until it's almost too much, until they're twitching and laughing and Nate has collapsed across Reid's chest.

It's as warm and easy and familiar as the sunrise Reid watches every morning.

Reid lets his hands wander slowly over Nate's back and shoulders and arms, his ring ghosting over Nate's silvery scar, lumpy because it healed strangely from Andy's field stitches all those months ago. Reid smiles and cranes his head down to kiss it like he has a thousand times before, silently thanking whatever power or fate or chance led them through all that danger to here, to a nearly-perfect life where he doesn't have to spend every second of the day looking over his shoulder, doesn't have to fear being discovered or losing Nate again.

Nate knows what Reid's thinking because he does this every day too, remembering and giving thanks to whoever may be listening. He traces his hand over the scar on Reid's side, going back for one long kiss before sliding away to clean them both up.

Later, they'll take a shower together that, statistically, will most likely lead to activities that will require cleaning up all over again; the only reason they'll finally get out is that the water runs cold.

And maybe they'll shave and maybe they won't, because they both like a little stubble so what does it matter?

And then they'll get in the tiny boat they keep tied up at their deck and row to shore, wander slowly through the little town to pick up the few things they need. Nate ordered a new book that is scheduled to be in today; Reid will flirt shamelessly with the town baker so he gets the freshest bread for half-off.

What they won't do is hide in the shadows, or scrutinize every face they pass, or be terrified that someone will notice them. This is their home, the home of John and James Smith, and this is where they belong. Last week, Reid even started leaving his gun at home. They're just another couple going to the market, and they're safe.

And after they've brought everything back to their house and put it away, Reid will drag Nate out to the porch and hold his hand when they jump into the ocean. They'll snorkel around their house and make friends with a sea turtle before Reid flips onto his back and floats with his eyes closed, feeling the waves rise and fall beneath him, feeling the sun baking his skin, listening to the gargling sound of the ocean and the probably-hallucinated far-off chatter of whales, and - at some point - feeling Nate's hand stretch out and wrap around his own.

And they'll only get out after their fingers have turned pruney and the sun is a fading orange ball in the distance. They'll let the salt dry on their skin as they fry their fish for dinner, Reid hissing when the oil pops out of the pan and splatters on his bare chest.

They'll eat and split a six-pack in their tiny living room, and Reid will put an old Led Zeppelin record on the turntable, humming along absently as he chews.

And then they'll lie on the couch for hours, Reid's head resting in Nate's lap as his fingers slowly rake through his hair, the breeze tickling through the open windows and across their skin, just listening to the music and talking about whatever random thoughts float through their minds.

And Reid will have a fleeting moment, there in his little house with the waves lapping against the pillars beneath him and Nate's hands tangled in his hair, his nails scratching softly at his scalp, where he will be convinced that this isn't possible. That it's not real, that Elsa actually won, that he has been dead since that frozen night in Vermont all those months ago.

Because this is so perfect, so exactly what he never knew he always wanted, that Reid's certain he must be in heaven