Not operationally—operationally he was fine, or close enough. Briefings, rotation schedules, the slow grind of coordinating assets across a joint task force that had too many moving parts and not enough personnel to move them. All manageable.
It was the other thing.
He had told Hale, no—Hudson—that he liked him too.Out loud. In a storage room of all places, to a man who wasn't even supposed to be here. Who was technically still assigned to a different unit.Thatwas the part he couldn’t file away.
Hudson had been in his quarters twice since then. Once the night after—just for an hour, sitting on Elliot’s bed. He had debriefed the crash in a Hudson-kind-of-way, recounting things that were nearly catastrophic with the same energy he’d use to describe a mildly annoying commute.
The second time he’d stayed for hours. That was lastnight, and Elliot hadn’t quite processed it yet—having Hudson this close again, in his space.
Tonight Hudson had knocked on his door at 2300. 2302 they were in his bed. Elliot kept reaching for him before he could stop himself, before he could apply any kind of rational framework to what was happening.
Hudson was on his back now, one arm folded behind his head. Elliot lay beside him facing the wall, his back to Hudson. Hudson had kissed down the length of his spine twenty minutes ago with an attention and patience Elliot had not been prepared for. It required more of him to receive than to deflect, and he was still recovering from it.
Outside Elliot heard distant voices, someone walking their route, generators buzzing. He tracked the sounds automatically, marking where everyone was relative to where he was.
“You’re doing that thing,” Hudson said.
“What thing?”
“The listening thing. Where you catalogue all the sounds.”
Elliot didn’t answer.
“I can always tell because you go very still and your breathing changes.”
Elliot rolled over. He wasn't sure if it was an indictment or not. “I didn’t know it was noticeable."
“It’s not really. But I like to think I know you pretty well.” Hudson searched his eyes. “Speaking of… Can I ask you about the tattoo again?”
“What tattoo?” Elliot knew which.
“The 0.5. The one you got after Selection.”
He sighed. “Sure. It’s a reminder.”
“Of?”
“Of the day you beat me at the shooting range by half a second.”
Hudson smirked. “You got a tattoo to remind you I kicked your ass?”
Elliot rolled his eyes. “No, dumbass. I got a tattoo to remind me of you. Period.”
The teasing smirk faltered. “Elliot?—”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“Pleaselet me make it a thing.”
Elliot got up and pulled the desk chair to the side of the bed. He sat down and put his feet up on the metal frame.
Hudson shifted, pulling himself up against the headboard. The bed creaked and the mattress adjusted under the change in weight. “You could sit here.” He gestured to the space beside him. “On the bed. Where you already were.”
“Nah. I’m good.”
Hudson snorted. “Fine, suit yourself.” He reached for Elliot’s pillow and cradled it in his lap. “Can I ask you something else?”
“You’re going to regardless.”
