You can touch me.

Morgan always awakens, when Reid gets up at night.

Every time he does not move, pretending not to notice the cold seeping through the empty blankets beside him - not to hear Reid's soft padding, as he walks barefoot on the tiled floor. He remains laying on his side and does not open his eyes, remaining on the brink of sleep, suspended between the vagueness of dreams and that lucid, sharp attention that's been his companion for years.

He doesn't need to strain to hear the sound of water running in the bathroom, hushed by the closed door, for as long as it lasts - he does not need to keep track of the time, trusting his instincts will be quick to warn him if something is wrong.

And they do, sometimes, like tonight - the water has stopped, he wouldn't know how long ago, and still Reid hasn't come back. And Morgan finds himself awake and clear-headed in a soft, impalpable instant, when something snaps in his chest telling him - too long. He walks to the bathroom, quiet, and knocks before he opens the door.

Reid is sitting on the edge of the tub, his face harshly contrasted in the cold light of the mirror lamp. His hands lay abandoned in his lap, and he looks at them with an expression somewhere between pouting and a darker, profound something Morgan does not want to see.

"It won't go away," he says, raising his gaze to meet Morgan's. He lifts his pale, perfectly clean hands, just enough to show him. "It won't come off."

Morgan hesitates, leaning against the doorframe in his grey baggy shirt, a hint of stubble dusting his chin - then steps in front of Reid, and gets down on his knees.

"Alright," it's all he says, taking Reid's hands between his own with care. He wets his fingers with lukewarm water and starts stroking them softly, trying to soothe the reddened skin, the scrubbed-raw knuckles.

And, when he's done - when he feels Reid's posture relax, hears his breathing start to come somehow more easy - Morgan brings Reid's hands to his face, kissing their palms, their back, their lean fingers.

Reid's arms give an instinctive jerk as he tries to back off - but Morgan presses his hands to his own cheeks, and does not let him go. "You can touch me," he says, his voice low, calm. "There is no more blood, now."

It is only later, when Reid's breathing has become regular, slow - that Morgan hides his face against Reid's nape, spooned against his back, feeling his warm body safe within his arms. He sighs, closing his eyes. "Never stop touching me," he whispers.

And in the last, confused thoughts as he lets sleep reach for him again and slowly pool in is head, Morgan wonders - if Reid might know - that only this way Morgan is able to cleanse the blood from his own hands, too. Only this way.