Paradoxical

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds. Of course.

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She loves these mornings.

She shouldn't though. They should make her worry. They should induce guilt, and make her consider the possibilities of making it as undone as possible. They should remind her of the lies, the evasive answers to her friends' more and more frequent questions.

But they don't.

He doesn't feel guilty either. He's fully aware of the significance of each step they've taken in the past months, but every time he tries to, he fails to see the problem. The risks, the possible consequences. Everything about it screams complicated. Usually it would send him running for the hills. Her too. But every time the lack of guilt dawns on them and they shrug it off.

She gets up before him, she always does. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she smiles at the sight of his half-naked form tangled up in the sheets. It only takes him about 30 seconds from hitting the snooze button to being back in the land of dreams. She disappears into the bathroom, knowing he won't move an inch for at least another fifteen minutes.

When she emerges from the shower he's sitting up, sleepily running a hand over his head and yawning, looking very much like a child who doesn't want to go to school. He sits with his back to her but she knows he can always feel her watching. He always pretends he doesn't. So she stands back, watching the elaborate motifs of the tattoo on his back shift as stretches.

Their good morning never extends to anything but a long look, but the adoration in his eyes and the affection in hers make words unnecessary. After all, they've been limiting themselves to cryptic looks and smiles for years. And there's a reason for that, they both know it. Because frankly, this is wrong. And if it's not at the moment, it has all the possibilities to go wrong. But once more, this particular thought is pushed aside as he sidles past her to take a shower, leaving her to get dressed.

As the warm water hits his skin, he allows his sense to slowly awaken. It's at this stage of his morning routine he'd usually conclude that the night before was a mistake and that he won't wake up in this bed again. Probably not even see the woman again. But he knows that's not the case now. Far from it. He knows that soon, either as soon as tonight or in a few days if they get called out of town, he will fall asleep next to her again. Just like he's done almost every night for the past six months.

She stares at her own reflection as she buttons up her crisp, white shirt, her slender fingers easily pushing the tiny buttons through their holes. She leaves the top one undone, it's not too revealing and it allows the small silver pendant around her neck to be visible for the world to see, the tiny piece of jewelry being a gift from him. A subtle statement of what they are to each other, out in the open for the others to see but never to figure out its true significance.

And as every morning she asks herself whether today will be the day when it will be natural to tell their friends. Confirm what they're already suspecting but always fail to prove. But telling people would mean putting a label on it. What's at the moment is only vaguely classified as "something" would then turn into a "thing" with a much heavier meaning and implications.

She doesn't know what it is called, this that they're doing. The changes had happened so gradually, morphing the old and familiar bounds of friendships into something else entirely. After she came back from Paris she'd hurried to mend thestrong bond they'd shared before she told all those lies, ducked away from his concerned looks and ended up in Paris, letting the team believe she died.

Then she came back, and the unusually large amount of time they spent together suddenly extended from Sundays at the shooting range, to going out for dinner just the two of them and spending long albeit innocent evenings on the couch watching old reruns. But it didn't take long before they found themselves waking up in bed together with the unspoken agreement of that this was the natural course of their relationship. Or whatever it should be called.

He comes out of the bathroom as she finishes up her make-up. Seeing her dressed in her no nonsense dress pants and white shirt it reminds him of when she first came to work with them. He'd thought he had her pegged from the moment he laid eyes on her. Passionate about her job, no ice queen but strictly professional. A brief and in retrospect, rather flirtatious exchange regarding Kilgore Trout and Kurt Vonnegut had shattered that image of her rather quickly. But sometimes, like now, he willed himself to make those first impressions come back to him.

Back then, he would never in a million years have imagined that a handful of years later they would be here. She was nothing like he'd first thought. Since then she'd let him see her vulnerable, with all the protective walls down. He'd seen her angry and they've gotten into rather nasty argument with each other, accused each other of things they both knew weren't true. She allowed him to see all of her. And most recently, the loving side of her. The woman hidden beneath all the professionalism and the intimidating stance. The woman who would curl up into him and fall asleep on his chest, the woman whose kisses made him wonder how he could ever have let himself believe he'd ever shared something special with a woman before. Nothing ever came close to this.

Whatever it is.

She can feel him watch her as she blow dries her hair. He walks around her room, seemingly at ease, picking a shirt to go with the charcoal black pants and taking his time buttoning it. It strikes her how he really is the image of perfection to her. Sure, other women regularly noted his good looks and she knew fully well that he certainly is a good looking man. But to her it wasn't just that.

Beneath the wide smile and sparkling eyes lies what drew her in from the beginning. The compassion, loyalty and concrete set of values. He slips on his watch. Her gift to him. He gave her the silver pendant, she bought him the watch. A sort of promise and a statement to the outer world, a purpose more traditionally filled by rings, which is something that screams commitment and of something they've never expected to be in the cards for them.

He takes his gun and credentials from the bedside table and fastens them to his belt before giving himself one last look in the full length mirror. Then he beckons Sergio to follow him out to the kitchen. The black cat happily bounces off the bed, knowing that there will be a bowl of food to expect, not only the brewing coffee.

She joins him in the kitchen not much later, the smell wafting through the apartment telling her that there as steaming mug waiting for her on the counter. Then they have breakfast, sometimes in silence or like today, making smalltalk. The move around her rather small kitchen as if they've been doing it for much longer than it actually is. It's only been six months. Officially, doing this. But meaning just a little too much to each other has been there for so much longer. Maybe even from the beginning. Maybe that's why it feels more like these six years than their six months.

They still take separate cars to Quantico. Arriving together almost every morning is suspicious enough. At least they have their own separate cars in the parking lot to back up their lies fairly well every time their friends study them for just a moment too long, suspicion in their eyes.

They gather up wallets, keys and cellphones. Shoes and coats, check. Their eyes lock through the small mirror in the foyer. She turns to face him.

"Have a good day at work, sweetheart" she says softly, mirth in her eyes, humor and irony in her voice.

He laughs and steps closer, letting his fingers thread gently through her hair. Their kiss is gentle but passionate enough to convince them both of that it's still worth it. The lies, the risks, the ambiguity of their relationship. As they leave the apartment and drive off in separate vehicles, she tells herself that something that feels so good can never really be wrong, no matter what the rulebook and social norms claimed.

She knows that some day it will have a name, then everybody will know. She knows there's a good reason for the absence of guilt. And so does he.

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