Chapter Twenty-two

Reid stands at the ship's railing, breathing in the salty air and letting the sea spray brush over his skin. The sun's glare off the water is making him squint and he wishes he had his sunglasses, but they're in the duffel bag he shares with Nate - which is currently being used as a lumpy, canvas pillow.

With that thought he glances over his shoulder, smiling as he watches Nate sleep. He's so much more peaceful now, curled into a tight ball on the hard deck, the gauze over his stitches still pristine white and visible through the tear in his shirtsleeve.

Between the flask, blood loss, and all the emotional trauma, he'd cried himself into complete exhaustion just before dawn.

Reid sat beside him for a long time afterward, staying awake to keep watch. He stretched his legs out in front of himself and rested one hand on Nate's side, letting the even rhythm of his breath lull him into more tranquility than he'd felt in months. Nate was warm and healing beside him, none of the ship's crew had come anywhere near them, and there was no sign that they had been followed.

And somewhere off the coast of the Carolinas it finally sank in - they really have made it. They are still alive. And they're back out in the world on their own, free to follow their whims.

His plan is actually working.

So by the time Nate wakes, even his foul mood from the combination of aching muscles, pain in his arm, and caffeine withdrawal isn't enough to dampen Reid's giddy spirits. He's got Nate at his side, he'll be back behind the wheel of his baby in just a few hours, and life is full of beautiful possibility.

Nate staggers to the railing and stands a few feet away from Reid, slumping and rubbing his eyes so he doesn't have to see Reid's annoyingly bright, toothy smile.

"You know, Nate, we never actually made it to the beach. And we're headed straight back to Florida, home of the best beaches in the country. What do you think - Daytona? Miami? Both?"

Nate rolls his shoulders and grimaces, desperately wishes for a glass of water and something to gag Reid with.

But he doesn't have either one, so Reid just plows on with his happy and entirely one-sided conversation. "C'mon, Nate. It's the beach! Get excited!" He reaches out to ruffle Nate's ridiculous bedhead, only smiling wider when he snacks at Reid and pulls away, stumbling back to grab their bag before ducking behind the nearest shipping container to finally change out of his ruined suit.

"No, you know what? I've got a better idea." And if Nate thought Reid's tone was annoying before, it's infinitely worse when he raises his voice to call back to him over the ship's engine noise. "Put on those stupid shorts and rubber flip-flops you like. I'm taking you to the Keys."

*******

So they pick up the Camaro in Orlando, Reid whispering borderline obscene declarations of love to her when he slides behind the wheel, and start making their way south.

He'd thought Nate's mood would improve once he was settled back into that familiar leather seat with a cup of gas station coffee in one hand and a not-too-stale doughnut in the other, especially with the promise of a warm island and fruity drinks only a handful of hours away.

But - even though Reid didn't think it was possible - Nate only seems to be worse. Because at least on the boat he'd been open and emotional. It had been painful, but Reid had felt like he could reach him.

Now, Nate has steadily withdrawn until he's completely walled off, quiet and rigid in the seat as he watches the palm trees whipping by. He politely responds to direct questions - "Are you hungry?" "Do you want a sip of my Red Bull?" - but that's all.

Reid misses Ben and his freakishly high emotional intelligence levels already. He'd know how to have some touchy-feely, heart-to-unbelievably-sappy-heart conversation with Nate and find out what was going on. Instead, there's no one to do it but Reid, who has no fucking clue where to even start.

The best he can come up with is a joking, "Geez, Nate, what giant bug crawled up your ass and died?"

And all that earns him is one of those frowning glares Nate has perfected as he shifts his weight in the seat, turning to face the side window.

Reid sighs and takes the next exit, pulling into the first gas station he sees to fill up and grab some snacks. Nate stays in the car, doesn't even recognize that they've stopped.

So Reid rolls his eyes and heads inside alone, browsing through the aisles as he tries to decide what he wants. And it's when he wanders into the personal hygiene section that he's struck with an idea, laughing to himself as he grabs something for Nate.

He half-jogs back to the car with his usual giant soda and beef jerky, but Nate still doesn't look up - at least, not until Reid tosses a tube of Preparation H into his lap.

Nate picks it up and stares for a moment, drawing his eyebrows together in confusion. Reid settles his drink in the cup holder and smirks.

"For those giant-bug-up-the-ass-induced hemorrhoids of yours. I'm sure sitting on those for so long is enough to make anyone cranky." Reid puts the Camaro in drive and rips into the jerky. "So now you can cheer the fuck up, right?"

Nate tosses the tube out the window before they even leave the parking lot.

*******

But really, beneath all the snark, Reid's worried. He just wants to make Nate happy, to make him forget about the fucked-up deposition and Cara and the stitches in his arm.

He's just go no clue how to do that. The only ideas he has are the things that always make him feel better, which mainly fall into four categories: driving, drinking, fighting, and fucking. And while Reid would love to skip straight to option number four, the vibe in the car doesn't make him think that the proposition would be received all that well.

The third choice is out, too. Even if Nate was to spontaneously get over his self-imposed pacifist bullshit, he'd be one of the few people on the planet that Reid really wouldn't want to pick a fight with. He's pretty sure he'd have his ass handed to him on a silver platter, complete with a lovely parsley garnish.

Which leaves him with only two options.

So when they cross the first bridge onto Key Largo, Reid steels himself and does something so unthinkable it's sure to shock Nate out of whatever it is that's happening to him.

He offers up the Camaro.

"Hey, you know, it's a beautiful drive down here. Do you want to take over for a bit?"

But Nate doesn't even recognize the magnitude of the gesture. He just shakes his head, so minutely that Reid barely even sees it.

And then it takes a solid thirty-seven seconds for Reid to stop gaping at him like he's lost his motherfucking mind.

Well, okay then, he finally thinks. Drinking it is.

*******

Reid wasn't lying about the drive. It's gorgeous - seemingly endless bridges over the blue waves, white capped as they break on the island coasts, with warm, salty air whipping through the open windows. It's so nice that Reid manages to nearly forget about the irritable lump in his passenger's seat. He just cranks up the radio and keeps going until they hit the edge of the ocean, parking to see the oversized buoy at the tip of Key West that marks ninety miles to Cuba.

"I don't suppose that's an option," Nate asks as they walk up, gesturing to the sign, the sea. "I've always wanted to see Cuba."

It's the first thing he's said that wasn't in response to a direct question, and Reid would love to be able to say yes. Instead, all he can do is chuckle and rub his palm across the buoy's black paint, hot with the sun.

"A federal agent and witness in protective custody vacationing in a country we've embargoed? Yeah, not really."

They watch a sailboat bob in the distance, listen to the squawking seagulls soaring overhead.

Nate turns away from the water, the sand strewn across the pavement crunching under his sandals. "Then I want to go to Ernest Hemingway's house."

Reid smiles, small and private.

Ah, nerdy sight-seeing interests. There's the Nate I know and lo-

He stops himself before he finishes even thinking the word. It's true - he loves Nate and he knows it - but that kind of thinking could get him in some seriously deep shit. His complete breakdown back in New York was a giant neon sign that he was getting too emotionally compromised to do his job effectively.

But another, larger part of him knows that he can't really help it and doesn't even want to. As far as signs go, the shooting was an equally large one that his time with Nate is precious and possibly far too short. It's just that Reid doesn't want to make things awkward; he still doesn't even know if Nate is interested in men.

Or, more specifically, interested in him.

So Reid does what he always does - he covers all his emotions with what he hopes is a charming grin and slings an arm over Nathaniel's shoulders, careful to avoid his bandage.

"Yeah, yeah, I promise we'll go pet Papa Hemingway's six-toed cats tomorrow. But tonight, we embrace the island spirit in the best possible way." He looks down at Nate and winks. "We drink rum. Lots of rum."