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~ married to your job ~
prompt: regret character: derek morgan warnings: marital problems, mention of death
Your head rests in your hands, your whole body shaking. The television sits on, a story about FBI agents getting killed while attempting to find an unsub. Derek has yet to answer his phone, none of his coworkers answering their phones either. It's like everyone decided to turn off their phones. Ignore you and the fear of your husband being dead. Ignore every single time that you've feared for his life and how this moment is the worst it's ever been for you. As though your feelings are irrelevant to them, to him.
A knot forms in your throat from the constant crying, the calling to your mom, and the outrageous screams you've been letting out. No, not outrageous, monstrous. Tears well in your eyes and your fingers become white as your hands continuously ball up into fists. This goes on for a couple hours, still no answer. "Mom, I think I might just come to your house," you call her once more, your leg bouncing as you chin rests on your hand. "You always know we're open for you, even if- when he does come home, you can come here all you want," she answers, slight anger laced within each word.
"Thanks... I might pack a bag, I don't know yet," you sit up, taking your hand and scratch the back of your head. The news channel quickly gives updates on the situation, no victims stated yet. Upon hanging up the phone, you pull yourself up the stairs, your legs feeling the most heavy they've ever felt. All of your clothes devolve into a pile within a small duffel bag. The same bag you used while going on your honeymoon. The same bag he bought you before going on your first vacation together as a couple. The same stupid bag he would say is good luck because 'we've lasted this long'.
You pull the bag over your shoulder and head down the stairs, trying to think of your next move. Clooney. You have to grab Clooney. "Hey boy, where are you?" You call out, heading into the kitchen to see him laying on the ground. "We're going to head to my mom's house, okay? I don't know if- when Derek will be back, so let's go get comfortable," even though Clooney can't understand a word you're saying, you feel the need to insinuate Derek is most definitely alive. It's totally only for him.
As soon as he gets up, the front door handle begins to jiggle. It moves as though someone's trying to enter the house, break in or something. Clooney begins to bark, setting you off to grab a knife, a weapon. You slowly walk over to the door, attempting to see through the peep hole. On the other side stands a slightly disheveled, likely alcoholic Derek. Part of you want to open the door and stab him anyone, til death do you part. However, you quickly set the knife down on the coffee table, pulling the door open with your free hand.
"Fuck you." You simply state, staring at him. Your face doesn't even show a semblance of respect or understanding. His eyebrows narrow, noticing the bag in your hand, "What? What is going on?" You tilt your head up for a second, wondering if you should be laughing at his hilarious joke. "What's going on? You didn't answer a single message, a single call. None of you did. I thought you died in that attack! I was calling my mom for hours, and you're what, drunk?" His eyes slowly blink, trying to gain some clarity.
"We went out for a couple drinks, to celebrate that we got the bomber. And to mourn the ones who died," Derek tries to reason, slightly sobering up from his party-like state. You shake your head, crossing your arms in front of your chest, "No." He shuts the door behind him after taking a step into the house, tilting his head at your response. "No?" Derek's voice is sharp, mimicking what you said, however, his is not as determined. "You don't get to do that. Not to me. Not to the person who has devoted their life for you."
He sets his go-bag on the ground, reaching his hands out to you, "Do what? I'm fine!" Your hands reach up, intertwining together to stop you from doing something to him. "Make me believe you died. Did anyone else contact any of their spouses? What about Aaron? Did Haley get some form of closure that her husband wasn't blown to fucking pieces?" Your hands untangle themselves and make their ways to your waist, taking a step back from your husband. "Yes, he called her afterwards," he says, his hand reaching for the back of his head.
"And you didn't think to call the love of your life after that? To tell me? Did you tell everyone else to not answer their phones as well? Do you even regret not telling me?" You lick your lip, looking away from him in the process. In your peripheral, you can see him shaking his head, clearly about to explain the situation to you. "No-Yes! Well no and yes! There was just a lot of agents there, most of us didn't look at our phones," Derek says, somehow believing that that would resolve the situation between the two of you. You take one hand and pull the bag closer to you.
"That's great. I'm so happy that you had such a good time that you could forget your spouse for a moment. That you could ignore your phone when news stories were discussing the death of FBI agents," you sarcastically say, leaning down and grabbing of the car keys from the coffee table. "I'm staying with my mom for the night, and I'm taking Clooney," you instantly say, looking down at Clooney who is still standing by your side. "Come on y/n, it'll be okay, just stay here tonight."
You open the front door, pushing past the agent. "I already told her I would. Maybe you should go out and do another case, as half of the time it seems you're married to your job." Clooney follows you out to the car, your whole body vibrating as you can feel Derek's eyes staring at you.
