Author's Note: Fine. I didn't think I was going to do it, but . . . well, a late night date and lotsa sugar cookies can put a girl into a weird mood . . . and then, you give her a computer . . . well, what do you expect to get? Welcome to the world of my first-ever slash.

I've always been fond of a romantic tale, and, as far as Fanfic goes, Morgan/Reid is most definitely my favorite. And I kind overindulged on the pairings this week, and after finishing, like, 30, I figured . . . Hey, why not give it a go?

I've never done this before, and I have no cues (as far as the show goes) on how to write my boys all in lurve. I hope they're in character.

This fic will be set in season 6 (pre-Prentiss leaving, but after JJ, if it matters) be multiple-chapter and multiple point-of-view, and (I hope) have a happy ending. (Like I said, I have no freakin' idea what the eff I am doing here . . . Should be fun to figure out, though . . . Hah.

Warnings: This chapter contains spoilers for Season 3, Episodes 15 and 18 ("Revelations" and "Jones," which, I might add, if you haven't seen by now, you really have no business reading reid!centric FanFiction), and major fluffy-ness on Morgan's part. Funzies.

Disclaimer: I only own the complete set of all Criminal Minds episodes on DVD, and not the show, the stories, or the characters. But, guess what? I'm gonna screw with them anyway!

Reviews, like chocolate, are delicious and beloved, but not required.

Do enjoy.

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Derek Morgan had noticed a great many things in his life.

He was an older brother, of course – that was part of the job. He noticed the way that Sarah had become more quiet and giggly after she'd had her first kiss. He'd noticed the way that Desiree liked to sigh instead of yawn when she was tired.

He was a son, as well – and noticing was part of that job, too. He'd noticed how his father would put other people ahead of him at all times – even to the point of his life being in danger, and, eventually, to the point of death. He'd noticed that his mother, while insisting that he never had to come up from Quantico to spend holidays with her, always lit up whenever he did manage to make it.

And, of course, as a profiler, Derek Morgan was paid to do the same thing as he always did – to notice. He noticed the way that sadists always demanded recognition and fear – so he never gave it to them. He noticed how oftentimes, the team was so exhausted from work that they never got to spend a lot of time together where they weren't hunting serial killers. He noticed how the dynamic in is office had changed – first from tense, dedicated and stoic profilers to active and open FBI agents – and from there to associates, to friends, to family.

And, it was in that he noticed all of these things that Derek Morgan found himself noticing something else. Or, rather, someone else.

Morgan had noticed Spencer Reid the very first time the two had met. How could he not? It was hard to forget meeting this kind of tall, skinny, awkward, wet-behind-the-ears kid with three PhD's and a license to kill (or to hunt people who did, anyway.) He'd shaken Spencer's hand upon that introduction, and, noticing the way that the kid jumped back slightly at his touch, had said, "Cool your heels, Pretty Boy." And he'd noticed the rush of blood that had flooded the young man's cheeks at his words.

As the years had gone by, Derek Morgan had noticed more and more things about Spencer Reid.

He'd noticed that work always came first for the youngest member of their team – that he was the only one who never complained about the massive piles of paperwork, the unpaid overtime, the lack of holiday weekends. He'd noticed how, if anything, Reid seemed always just a little bit happy to be doing something he so clearly loved, to be surrounded by people that he'd so clearly come to care about.

He'd noticed the way that the kid never talked about his family – and, after a few years, he'd only revealed the cowardice of his father and illness of his mother when it had been relevant to a case.

He'd noticed how the young man had changed drastically after his abduction at the hands of Tobias Hankel – how Spencer became snappish and exhausted, and had begun pulling away from the team more and more as time went by. He'd noticed the track marks one morning when Spencer was struggling to button up a stubborn vest – he'd noticed, but hadn't ever said a word. And he'd noticed the way that, sometime after JJ had started dating Sir-Thick-Accent from New Orleans, Spencer had calmed down, gotten some rest and much-needed vacation time, and had started going to 'movies' once or twice a week.

Morgan had noticed that Spencer still did.

But it had started to become something even more than that – which, of course, Morgan had noticed.

He'd noticed the way that Spencer never went out with girls much – oh, sure, there had been Lila Archer and the infamous pool-side kiss all those years ago, and, more recently, a cute little bartender he'd helped rescue (and apparently given career advice to) down on another case . . . But, besides that, Morgan had never seen the young man make an attempt to talk to females outside of work – and even then, it had taken him a long time to warm up to Penelope, Emily, or even the new trainee they were advising, Ashley Seaver. Really, it was only JJ that he'd ever become close to quickly (and Morgan had always suspected that was because he saw the blonde as something of a mother/sister, more than any romantic notions, . . . that one Redskins "date" being the only evidence to the contrary, of course).

Morgan had also noticed that Spencer, while not liking to be touched, would often flinch or twitch whenever someone's hands came into contact with any part of his body. Except with Derek himself – and Morgan had noticed that he was the only one who could ruffle the young genius's hair, pat his back, or even grab his arms and give him a hug, without getting some sort of declining action from the man.

Morgan had noticed Spencer's hair – the charming way that, as it had grown longer, it got darker and curlier and seemingly thicker – and how the young man loved to let it go until he decided to make some big new 'thing' with it; most recently, he had snipped of the nearly-foot of chocolate brown tresses into something Derek had affectionately begun to think of as a 'boy-band 'do.' He loved that hair.

Morgan had noticed Spencer's eyes – he used to think that they were a warm brown shade similar to that of his hair, but, over the years, and after a number of close encounters with the young genius, the older agent had decided that they were more like a light shade of hazel, with small flecks of green and gold swimming in their depths. He noticed they way that those two wide orbs on the other man's face were the most expressive part of him – they were always lighting up in excitement, flickering in fear or fury or determination, or even sparkling in laughter and happiness. He loved those eyes.

Morgan had noticed Spencer's perfect, soft lips – their pink hue danced enticingly in his dreams most nights, and it was all he could do sometimes not to try doodling them on the margins of his office paperwork. He had noticed the way that the young man bit them whenever he was stressed, or chewed on them whenever he was thinking – and it took all of Derek's self-control on those occasions not to rush forward and claim those beautiful parts as his own. He loved those lips.

Morgan had noticed Spencer's firm, smooth cheekbones and his pale, flawless skin. He'd noticed his delicate hands and slender pianist's fingers. He'd noticed – oh, he had definitely noticed – the other man's body – the long legs that were so often hidden in unflattering trousers and ugly cords . . . the angle-y V-shaped torso that stretched in a most pleasing way . . . the arms that had gotten firmer and thicker since the rehabilitative therapy that Spencer had attended after getting shot in the knee . . .

He'd noticed the way that the young man dressed more stylishly (discarding the khakis and sweaters from days of old for more form-fitting button-down shirts, vests, stylish slacks, and Converse shoes), walked with more dignity and confidence, and even let loose with a smile or a chuckle more often than before.

And, more than anything else, Morgan noticed that he'd stopped thinking of Spencer as "Reid."

Morgan had done his best to come to terms with his feelings for his younger agent, fellow profiler, and best friend. Every morning, he'd wake up from some dream (more often than not involving the desire of his unrequited affections), sigh slightly, get dressed, and head off to work, where he would spend another day pretending that he wasn't feeling the things he was feeling, noticing the things he was noticing, or loving the thing he was loving.

It is love, isn't it? Morgan wondered for the umpteenth time as he stepped into the elevator on the first floor of the FBI Headquarters, jabbing his only free finger into the "Up" button that would take him to his desk – and another huge pile of paperwork that he would have to find a way to slip to his Pretty Boy before the day was over . . .

Really, how can you spend so much time with someone – see things for and with them that no one else sees, say things to, for, and with them that no one else hears, and have to do things to, for, and with them that no one else does – get to know them in ways that they don't even know themselves, and not love them? Isn't it natural, that the sort of feelings that come from all of the emotional baggage result in falling for someone the way you've never fallen for someone before?

Yet again, Morgan found himself with no answers, and even more confusion as he shook his head of the recurring argument. It was the same path along which he'd been thinking for almost a year, now.

He liked Spencer: like, like – liked the young man. And it was a problem because that was never going to happen. Besides the fact that he was still dealing (or trying not to, in most cases) with this sudden upset to the scale of his sexual orientation, there was also the section of their little rulebook that said there were to be no inter-office relations between agents . . . and there were the regulations – not to mention the reactions – of Hotch and Strauss to take into the equation . . . Plus, of course, that oh-so-small matter that there was simply no way that the person in question – that is, the one that Morgan had most unwittingly fallen for – would return his affections. Reid had given no indication that he even liked dating, let alone dating men.

And even if he was into guys, there was nothing to suggest that Derek was his type.

And, even if he was – and even if there was no Section Seven, Paragraph 113 to worry about, even if there was no reaction from their Unit Chief, and their Section Chief, and their freakin' Department Head to fear for, and even if Spencer was capable and willing to be Morgan's one-and-only – even if all of fell into place perfectly, Derek reflected morosely, there was, without a doubt, no way that the relationship could work out. Their job wasn't just part of their lives – it was part of who they were. It took almost everything from them – and, if Jason Gideon was any indication, someday, it would take the rest, too. And 'the rest' would include any possible relationship he might share with Spencer. And the job could take it – it would.

Morgan would rather pine away for something that he couldn't have than risk it all to take Spencer into a bigger part of his life, and lose him through a break-up, or a transfer, or Hell or high water, or even (he shuddered to think it) death.

No, no, . . . Derek lamented, as the doors cracked open to face the bull-pen of the BAU, and he ambled slowly inside, coffees in his hands jiggling slightly as he pushed past droves of other agents just clocking in.

It was definitely better this way. Definitely.

Morgan hurried to sit down at his desk – or, maybe, he was hurrying so that he could be closer to the other, much neater desk beside his own. The older one, the smaller one . . . the one currently occupied by those perfect legs and that perfect face of his perfect person.

Morgan smiled easily as he bent over the small divider that separated him from Spencer Reid, and handed the young man one of the two paper cups in his arms.

"Here ya go, Kid." He grinned as the young man jumped, clearly having been startled by the sound of another voice, and flashed Morgan a terrified look for a split second before realizing that the voice had been that of friend and not foe. Spencer bit his lip (Oh, god) and, upon seeing what his best friend was offering, smiled brightly and reached out for his coffee.

Morgan noticed the way that Spencer inhaled the scent of his beverage deeply before taking a delicate first sip. It was almost as adorable as that purple scarf he always wore – was wearing today, as a matter of fact. He grinned.

Spencer, noticing the expression on Derek's face when he opened his eyes, frowned ever-so-slightly and asked, "What?"

Morgan shook his head at being caught, and attempted to laugh it off, dropping the second item he'd been holding in his hand on Spencer's desk.

A 5 lb. bag of sugar.

"For your coffee, Pretty Boy. Try to make it last the day."

Sitting down, Morgan could barely hear Spencer's sarcastic "Hardy-har-har" as he began shuffling the files on his desk.

The truth was, the coffees were for a different reason entirely. They were a celebration – well, a quiet form of it, anyway.

Today was October 24th. The eight-year anniversary of when Spencer Reid and Derek Morgan had first met. One week before Halloween.

After his initial first response to Morgan's attempt at contact on that day all those years ago, Spencer had put the man off. Derek had thought something along the lines of, Oh, great, some shy little geek with a gun that weighs more than he does, and figured that their scheduled interrogation for that afternoon would be a painful back-and-forth of Bad Cop, Socially Reclusive Weirdo.

But, later on that same day – as their first meeting, as his first impression – Morgan had been shocked to find out how wrong he had been. Spencer had been kind in the interview with the victim – gentle, open in a way no one would have expected, and, with quiet prodding and soft words and demeanor, they had gotten enough of a description to nail the sonofabitch unsub to the wall.

Morgan had clapped Spencer on the shoulder when they'd exited the facility that evening, and told him, "Hell of a profiling job, kid. Gideon was right." And, once again, the genius had blushed and averted his eyes.

That was when Morgan had started to, unconsciously, in some form or another, begun to love Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid.

It had been eight years, to the day. Morgan smiled a little when he thought on these past odd 2,200 days – and his smile grew even wider when he lamented the fact that the object of his affections could probably tell him the exact number of days, hours, minutes, seconds . . . and, of course, what everyone had been doing and wearing and saying during each of them.

Derek glanced over again at his friend, barely able to see the top of the doctor's head – although he did hear when Spencer sighed slightly in irritation, and reached up to brush his mop of tangled curls out of his eyes yet again. And he noticed the way that the man sipped his coffee and tossed a quick "Thanks, Morgan" out of the side of his mouth, somehow aware that he was being watched.

Yep. Morgan thought, forcing his eyes away from the perfection just a few feet to his right to his and onto the small, statute folder labeled with the official FBI insignia in front of him.

It's definitely for the best to just look, and not touch.

Definitely.

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