Author's Note: I TOLD ya it would be up eventually! And it only took me a month to get around to it this time, instead of six. Boo-yah! *Punches air*

Now, first and foremost, let me point this out; I do not now, nor have I ever, supported relationships that are in any ways abusive or harmful. That stuff's messed up, and it break's m'heart to see. This is a work of fiction, and based entirely off of a really weird dream I had a while back. Don't read too much into it; I'm just craving some delicious drama, and until DarknessIsTheUniverse comes up with another chapter for her novel, I'm up shit's creek.

Anyhoo . . . I'll attempt the weekly updates, of course, but no promises; either I'm gonna kill my chef, or he's gonna kill me, but either way, this Garde Manger class cannot freaking end soon enough.

Meh, enough of my tepid life. Ya clicked on this story for a reason, so let's finish up this intro and try to get to the good stuff.

Kudos: Many thanks to both Annber03 and silverwrym for their nudging to get this thing both started and finished. I like to stall, and I needed the push, so thanks much for that, dearies.

Warnings: This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

Disclaimer: The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling Criminal Minds as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is yours.

Do enjoy!

Chapter One:

The Morning After

Throughout the city of Washington, D.C, morning had arrived anew. The gray fingers of dawn stretched from rooftop to rooftop, milky light pouring in through windows and peepholes, under the cracks of doors and between the shutters of many closed houses.

While many, many people were still asleep as the sun began to rise on another wintery day in the state of Maryland, there were some souls just beginning to awaken.

Or, in the case of Dr. Spencer Reid, some who had been awake for quite awhile already.

Ever the joke of his team about his sleeping habits, it was hardly unusual for the young member of the BAU to be up in time to personally greet the paperboy and garbage-men. This morning, like many, Spencer had woken when the stars were still visible outside, and now lay staring at the ceiling as he patiently waited for his alarm clock to go off, for an excuse to get out of bed and get some coffee.

It was, of course, out of habit that the young man was already up. But, even if he wasn't a typically early-rising person, Reid knew deep-down that he would have already been up by this point, if for no other reason than the nightmares were starting to get to him. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the yelling, see the anger, feel the pain of being held down . . . He shuddered.

Reid hated nightmares. Really and truly, he despised them in their every sense.

It was strange . . . the young genius must have been more groggy than he usually was – as anyone one who knew him well could vouch, Reid was hardly a morning person before his daily dosage of caffeine – but suddenly, Spencer Reid was absolutely sure that he was in the wrong room.

Over the years, when he would lay awake in his own bedroom and watch the shadows change above him, Spencer had slowly but surely memorized every bump, inch, and crack along the faded plaster of his bedroom ceiling. He could identify any area of it with complete and total ease, like a snap of the fingers.

Not that Reid actually could snap his fingers. Another thing Derek Morgan loved to tease him about.

When he thought about his fellow agent, longtime friend and (most recently) boyfriend, Spencer usually felt a twist of happiness in his gut, a small rush and flip in his stomach that could only happen when someone was loving, or being loved.

Right then, though, as the name Morgan ghosted across his mind, all the genius felt was a clench of pain in his stomach, a slight flutter of fear crossing over his heart.

Well, what the Hell was that all about?

Reid thought for a moment, trying to recall the previous day, remember if he and Derek had a had a fight or some other sort of falling-out – but there was nothing. Just those nightmares . . . He shook his head.

He remembered that they had been working on a case; a bad one. The kind with kids, the kind that would never leave their hearts – and, in Spencer's case, his wonderful and terrible eidetic memory. It had been local, which could occasionally make things easier. Not so in this case. There had been interviews, he had been working a geographic profile, and Hotch had told them all to go home when the clock finally struck ten at night . . .

And then nothing. Reid couldn't remember a thing about what had happened next. His memory stopped at him walking Morgan out the door, and then picked up right around the time he had woken up from his first nightmare.

His eyes darted to his watch – also strange, he never fell asleep wearing the antique – which showed that it was within minutes of six o'clock, and, figuring he could squeeze in a nice shower before heading back to the office, Reid made to stretch and get up, glancing around the room as he did so.

Evidently, a lack of caffeine wasn't the issue at hand – this definitely wasn't his room. And even though he'd only been there a handful of times over their past few months of being boyfriend and boyfriend, Reid also knew instantly that he wasn't in Derek Morgan's house, either.

The bedding was a soft, pale blue – one that was complemented by gray trim, and perfectly matched the walls and curtains by the lone window in the room. Near at hand was a small bedside table, complete with a lamp, alarm clock, phone and Bible. To the left, he quickly noted a small roundtable and two (also blue) cushioned chairs that rested in a miniscule alcove. A reasonably nice TV on the dresser in front of him, and the door to a bathroom to the far left.

Ah. So he was in a hotel.

For a moment, Reid battled confusion before settling on the idea that, quite simply, he and Derek (there was that uncomfortable twist in his gut again!) must have decided to get a change of scenery and spend the night at one of the local lodges. It wouldn't be the first time that the two had wanted to keep a horrific case away from the both of their houses, and Reid knew that, sadly, it wouldn't be the last, either.

Shaking his head, Reid bit back a yawn as he fully sat up, and the covers from around him dropped.

Huh. He was still in the clothed he'd been wearing last night. Weird.

So many weird things this morning.

But again shaking it off, the young genius forced himself to ignore the ever-so-slight alarm bells going off in his head, choosing instead to try and get started on this day, to have his own brand of normal. He looked around for Derek, knowing that the older agent was usually up much earlier than himself.

Deciding when his initial scan of the room didn't reveal the man that his boyfriend must still be out jogging, Spencer began the slow and – to him – agonizing process of waking up. As always, he made the bad, assuring himself the pillows were perfectly straightened and the comfort completely smooth before checking his phone for any messages from the BAU. Seeing that there were none, Reid allowed himself a brief second of hope that, since today was Friday, there would be no case coming in, and that he and his team might get a rare full weekend off of work. As much as he loved his job, even the dedicated BAU genius couldn't deny that a few days of no gruesome crime scenes would do him some good. Not to mention that he'd get a little more time to catch up with Morgan.

The small flutter of unease returned, and Spencer immediately quelled it, choosing instead to wonder where in the Hell his boyfriend was, exactly. It was far past six a.m. at this point, and normally the two would share a cup of coffee and a kiss before showering and heading off to work together.

As he looked around, Reid noticed yet another odd thing to add to the cacophony of un-normal-ness that was so far making up his day. His satchel – it was nowhere to be found. Which was strange, because his phone and keys were resting in plain view on the bedside table, and he could feel the uncomfortable bump of his own tattered wallet in his pocket.

He got down on his knees, and looked under the bed. Nothing, still. A quick glance around the room confirmed what Reid already knew; his bag simply wasn't there.

What was going on . . ?

A loud, shrill noise interrupted his thoughts, and startled, Reid let out a most undignified yelp and tumbled backwards onto the floor.

He allowed himself a moment of panic, before his eyes flittered over to the source of the sudden interruption, and he shook his head in mortification.

What kind of FBI agent was still scared by their alarm clock?

Reid let out a light scoff. "Get it together," he whispered, slipping easily into talking to himself as he did when he was upset or tired. Right now, he was a little bit of both.

After another moment of sitting on the floor, Reid realized that, of course, the morning wasn't going to start itself, and he edged up, gripping the end of the bed to stabilize himself. He stood, swaying slightly on his feet, and once more looked around the room.

Still mildly curious as to why he couldn't find his bag anywhere, the doctor's sweeping eyes finally located the obligatory tiny coffee machine, next to several small pouches of dark roast, some Styrofoam cups, and a small tray of sweeteners and powdered creamers. Automatically, he set up the one-cup system to brew some of the wonderful drink for him, and then, deciding that he really couldn't wait any longer, Spencer stepped into the bathroom, wanting to get a shower in before trudging off to work.

Eyes barely glancing over the hanging mirror to his left, Reid quickly and efficiently slipped out of his sweatervest, purple button-down shirt, brown cords, classically mismatched socks, and shoes, waiting only a minute for the water in the shower to get hot before stepping under the blast.

Oh, bliss! At his apartment, Reid was constantly having to ask the building's super to fix his bathroom unit, because he liked to turn the water on so hot that it would (and always did) break the knob. It had gotten to the point where the man refused to do any more work on it, and Spencer showered in the cold.

Derek, for all of his wonderful qualities, did not understand why Reid liked the water's pummeling and temperature to be so high, and his shower simply wasn't enough for Reid. Which was fine, because usually the mocha-skinned agent would simply get in the shower with him, and then Reid was much too distracted to focus on petty things like water pressure.

But this time, alone in a hotel room, Reid cranked up the heat until he could feel his skin scorching, and languidly began to soap up, enjoying the peace.

He – they – the team all deserved a little relaxation like this after their last case . . .

No, Reid reminded himself forcefully. He was not going to think about that right then. He didn't need the added weight on his shoulders, when all he wanted to do was get to work in one piece.

Shaking his head, the genius reached out for the little complimentary bottles of shampoo and conditioner, stopping in alarm when something on his wrist caught his eye.

Bruises. Large ones, a set of horizontal black stripes covering his right wrist. Some more, higher up, were on his left.

What the – ?

He brought his hands up to his face, blinking rapidly, as if hoping that when his vision cleared, the marks would be gone.

Wrong, so wrong. The hefty bruising on his skin stood out more against the pale foam of soap, and Reid had to fight back a wave of nausea at seeing them.

Someone had grabbed him?

There was a niggling voice in the back of his head, and Spencer was doing his best instinctually to drown it out, to not listen to the twisting in his gut.

Rather, and reluctantly, he looked down his body, and could see faintly under the steam another string of handprint marks along his abdomen, left on his skin from being gripped too tight, shoved too hard.

Blindly, feeling as though there wasn't quite enough air in the room, Reid reached out, clasping the shower curtain as if his life depended on it and yanking it back so hard that the rings holding it to the rack rattled in their casing.

He didn't care. Because right then, the only thing Spencer Reid was paying any attention to was his reflection in the mirror.

God, he barely recognized himself.

The pale skin, dark bedraggled curls and bright eyes were all still his, all things that Reid remembered and took comfort in in his reflection. The rest, though . . .

The marks on his wrist went quite well with the collection of varying-colored bruises that mottled his skin from his neck down. His eyes flitted briefly over the few on his ribs, clearly highlighting how skinny he was, before landing on his neck, which still bore the marks of large hands from last night.

It took an inner courage the genius had no idea how he'd mustered, but he finally looked at his face, cringing back from the black eye that, when combined with the bruise on his cheek, gave his face the ghastly appearance of wearing some half of a mask.

And suddenly, eyes watering as he took in the split lip and bump on his forehead, the small cuts and nips that covered his body like a collection of bad reminders.

Because, suddenly, the memory slammed into him with the force of a full-speed train. The fight –

– the yelling –

– names and insults, all muttered under a breath that was reeking of alcohol –

– pain, so much pain before blackness, so much bliss –

– Derek –

Oh, god, Derek.

And suddenly, the tremble of fear running through him didn't seem so unreasonable, so unexplained. Suddenly, the way his insides coiled at the thought of his boyfriend and best friend didn't seem so foreign. Suddenly, he couldn't reassure himself about the sate of things, ply himself with reasoning that Derek, Derek of all people, would never hurt him.

Because he had. Last night.

Oh, god . . .

Reid clasped a hand up over his mouth, fighting back the nausea.

It hadn't been a dream, after all.

Author's Endnote: The plot thickens, ooh . . . or it will next chapter. Promise. See ya soon!