AN: This story is Morgan-centric and contains slash and non-graphic sexual content. Mild spoilers for 2x12 Profiler Profiled. Criminal Minds is (unfortunately) property of CBS and I have no claim over the show or its characters. A big thank you to my friend, Danielle, for her constant encouragement and infinitely helpful comments. With that said, here's the story. Hope you enjoy it!
Derek sits at one end of the interrogation table, a wiry man at the other. He surveys Derek over steepled fingers and, in the florescent lighting, his sunken eyes are black smudges. He's not scared, he notes, not worried at all, even while being questioned about the murders of two prepubescent boys and the disappearance of a third.
"Can I tell you something?" the man asks in hushed tones. "Just between us."
Derek leans back sighing. They both know the privacy of the empty room is a sham, and Reid and Hotch are watching intently from the other side of the mirror, and just beyond them the entire Austin police force are milling around the station.
"Everything said here is on record."
"This isn't about me."
He raises his eyes to meet Derek's and for one searing second, Derek thinks he sees everything.
Derek barely feels the cold of the morgue. Four bodies are lined up on slabs, polished and neatly labelled.
He had never met them until this day; he'd never even heard of them. He wonders how many more people he'd only ever know as corpses.
In Flagstaff Reid comes face to face with a killer and pushes his gun into Derek's hand, trusting him to have his back. Derek's hand falters as he takes aim.
Something unspoken flickers between Reid and the killer in the midst of it all, hidden underneath carefully chosen words. A shared darkness of sorts. Derek thinks that's what makes the man drop the knife at Reid's feet, and wonders how he'd never seen it before.
Streetlights flicker in the dead of night in Atlanta. The case is solved – though no perpetrator has been taken into custody so all that is left is pinning the murders to a corpse - and everyone had finished packing up at the police station when Hotch tells them they can take the first flight out in the morning. Derek hasn't slept in two days and one night and feels dead on his feet.
He's falling asleep on the drive back and his feet drag as he hauls himself to his hotel room but once he's in bed sleep eludes him. He tosses and turns all night, his thoughts curling around him like smoke: too insubstantial to truly grasp.
Reid's eyes are clouded as he speaks. Distant. Words slip from his tongue without needing to be greased with conscious thought. They fall too quickly, and the pace only increases as he goes on until words and details swirl around the police station and all the local law enforcement officers are exchanged worried glances.
Derek knows it's unprofessional and that he shouldn't (he's been doing much too many things he shouldn't recently) but he still rests a reassuring hand at Reid's elbow. The effect is almost instantaneous: breathe starts to return to Reid's lungs and he quickly wraps up his tirade before flittering off to some corner of the station.
As he leaves he passes Hotch, whose lips are a thin line and whose eyes land on Morgan, glinting like polished stones.
Derek is passing through the hotel lobby when he spots Rossi sitting at the bar. He hadn't been planning on drinking, but he doesn't feel much like returning to his hotel room and hoping that sleep will find him.
"You buying the first round?" he asks as he approaches Rossi, who raises his eyebrows and looks distinctly unimpressed.
"Whose first round are we talking about here?" he replies coolly.
Derek grins and orders a beer, because the truth of it is that he doesn't care who pays for it.
He sees the words forming on Rossi's tongue before he speaks, while he's still formulating words as he swills his drink. "It's easy to let things get to you in this job," he says, his voice is deceptively light. "We all know that."
Derek gives a half-hearted shrug. "And?"
Rossi puts his glass down with a sharp clack. "And I'm saying that no one would blame you if you took some time off," he says. "Hell, I can't exactly judge you: I left for ten years."
Derek's eyes moved from his glass to his face, taking it in before speaking. "You seem to be doing alright now."
Rossi inspects the amber liquid in his glass. "It's all about setting rules, guidelines, to stop yourself from slipping." He raises his glass. "Two fingers of scotch a night – no more."
Derek nods and Rossi rises from his chair, leaving the rest of his scotch and enough money to cover both their drinks.
The elevator lurches up, only slightly jerky, but the motion seems to dislodge Derek's stomach and gut and sensibilities. He doesn't want to blame that for his actions, but a strange of sense of disconnect washes over him and, when Reid smiles weakly at him, he suddenly longs to be the very opposite of everything he is.
Later he'll think at it as a symptom of his sickness, the first step on a long road to ruin, but in that moment he doesn't think. He simply leans over Reid (a tricky feat seeing as Reid has several inches on him), resting one hand on his jutting cheekbone and the other on top of Reid's on the safety railing. Reid's pulse throbbing in Derek's ears and fingertips and tongue as he searches his eyes, not quite sure what he expects to see. His pupils are blown and bottomless. Derek reads curiosity there, and something else he can't quite place.
That something nags at him as he lowers his head, and is still on his mind as his lips catch Reid's.
Derek leaves his hotel room at 5am, confident that he won't get any sleep that night. He doesn't feel tired, or at least not more tired than he always feels. He's running on fumes, he realises, but he's running.
That's what he does that morning: runs. They're in Maine, right by the seafront, and the air is sharp and briny and stings his face. His footfalls beat a steady rhythm into the pavement and reverberate through his head, making his ears ring.
He finds himself at the police station, the only part of the town that he really knows, and circles around the building before heading back.
As he heads back to his hotel room, he feels that he might fall asleep for the first time in a long time. But it's too late for that and he needs to be washed and dressed and in the lobby in fifteen minutes.
He's surprised, to say the least, to find Reid sitting outside his hotel room, slouched over a book. Derek is standing almost directly above him by the time he realises he's not alone, and he springs to his feet in an instant.
He plucks two cups off the floor, and offers one to Derek. "Coffee?"
Derek takes it with a frown. "What are you doing here?" he asks.
Reid falters and Derek feels his heart sink a tiny bit.
The sun casts an angry wave of heat over them as they stand at the side of the road. Derek breathes in sand and decay. JJ doesn't seem to breathe at all. She runs a hand along the curve of her neck absently, her eyes never straying from the corpse between them. She looks haunted.
Derek can't see the likeness. The corpse's hair is a tangled, dirty blonde mess as opposed to JJ's blonde hair, pulled into a neat ponytail. Though both slender, the corpse is gaunt and skeletal whereas JJ has long, sinuous muscles. The corpse's clothes are in disarray, her blouse torn open, a single shoe hanging from her foot and her skirt sitting crooked of her hips, and JJ is always neat and polished.
It doesn't matter whether or not Derek sees a resemblance. The fact of the matter is that JJ does and he doesn't think he's ever seen her look so terrified in her life.
The conference room the Provo PD set up for them was stifling and packed with boxes of paperwork, only reinforcing the fact that they were unwelcome. It looks more like a storage room than anything else and Derek wonders how much pleasure the local police force took in shunting them to the side. Prentiss sighs as she lets herself out, insisting she can't think without some fresh air and a cup of coffee.
The moment the door closes, Derek feels the soft touch of Reid's hand on his hip and turns into the contact.
Reid's lips fall on his in a soft but searching kiss. A question of sorts. When it ends Reid keeps his eyes shut, resting his forehead against Derek's, and Derek wishes he knew what he was doing.
It felt a bit like drowning, he thought. Like giving in and letting yourself sink. He feels water closing in over his head as he presses kisses on Reid's exposed shoulders. Air slips from his lungs, eased out by jagged moans. His body grows cold and blue against Reid's as he slips further into his own depths.
Derek knows he should leave, but can't stop himself from sinking into sleep like a stone.
Reid manipulates him in Takoma.
Rain drizzles down Derek's back, creeping underneath his windbreaker and carving icy pathways through flesh. It plasters Prentiss' hair and a single droplet clings to end of her nose as they tentatively approach the stable, guns raised before them. They follow closely behind a SWAT unit and are flanked by the team.
Reid's inside the stable, face to face with a killer yet again, alone this time.
The heavy downpour should be enough to muffle their sounds, but this is a man who killed eleven people and they can't take chances so can only edge closer inch by terrifying inch. Derek tries not to think about what the man could do to Reid.
The sound of a gunshot rips through the night, crackling like thunder.
He finds Reid in the bathroom at the police station. He has blood on his hands. They all do, but Reid is the only one trying to remove it with soap and water. Derek leans against the sink next to Reid as he tries to wash the congealed blood from underneath his finger nails.
He should be angry, but he isn't. He doesn't blame Reid for his actions or himself for not seeing through them. Instead he's terrified. Shaken to the core.
Reid moves to wipe his hands on a paper towel, avoiding Derek's eyes. He tugs at the end of the paper, but the dispenser is stuck and the material rips. And instead of doing anything rational or anything Derek would expect from him, Reid slams an ineffectual fist on the dispenser and takes a shaky step backwards, his balled fists coming up to his eyes. Rivulets of water from his hair trickle down his face and neck and almost look like tears.
There's a hostage situation in Tennessee. A man holds a gun to a fourteen year old girl's head and promises that he won't going to shoot. Derek doesn't believe him.
That night Reid flinches away from Derek's touch, apologising profusely each time.
In Chicago, Derek walks familiar streets. He's there for the first snow, where flurries of brilliant white flakes dance in the wind and never seem to settle on the ground. Soon the city will be blanketed with white, but he won't be there to see it.
His feet take him away from his warm home and family and instead bring him to the community centre. Children are tossing around a football outside the centre but, despite knowing some of them, he doesn't go further than the chain link fence.
True to his word, Derek had ensured that the place stayed open, funding it from his own pocket and entrusting it to an old friend from high school. Even so, the mere sight of the building was enough to provoke the memory of Carl Buford's eyes on his back and breath on his neck.
Reid's fingers linger on Derek's back, tracing idle patterns into the bare skin. The contact is so light it causes his hairs to stand on end and his breath to catch in his throat. Trailing fingers leave molten paths in Derek's skin and he thaws beneath the touch.
Derek feels entirely too heavy as he lies next to Reid. His entire body pressing into the bed by some invisible force, being held there and he can't move even if he wants to.
Garcia stops Derek on the way out of the conference room and Reid lingers in the room, making a show of adjusting the strap on his satchel. She doesn't even spare a glance in his direction, instead turning the full force of her gaze on Derek.
"You're okay, right?"
Derek raises his eyebrows. "Yes, I'm okay," he assures her, his voice deceptively sincere.
"So I don't need to worry about you?" she probes.
"You worry about me?" he teases with an easy smile.
"Don't," she warns, holding a stack of files slightly too tightly. "And I know all about that profiler answering-a-question-with-a-question trick and it won't work."
He lets out an exaggerated sigh. "No, you don't need to worry about me."
Her eyes narrow. "Are you sure? Because-"
Just then the contents of Reid's bag spill onto the floor, ring binders clattering on the linoleum, files scatter everywhere and pens roll across the floor.
"Need any help there, pretty boy?"
A stony silence fills the car as they drive across the open country. Derek knows he should keep his eyes on the road but he can't help but let them stray to where JJ sits every so often. She sits too still, too stiff, and it worries Derek.
But he doesn't know how to get through to her: JJ is too private, too inclined to keep everything close to her chest and much too good at doing so. He hesitates before reaching out to cup her elbow to get her attention. "Everything okay?"
Her eyes flash as she looks up at him; he's struck by how strange it is for JJ, who normally measures the breath between words for effect, to get caught unawares. "Yes," she said quickly, and then pauses, her eyes roving over him. "It's just- What are you doing? This is Spence and you're-" She sighs heavily and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just, be careful."
Derek wants to remind her that Reid isn't a kid, but she sounds so weary and the words are lost on his tongue.
Derek lays on the bed, breathless and very much exhausted, but as Reid trails light kisses along his chest, Derek is helpless to do anything but helplessly want.
Reid's arms are wrapped around his back, holding him in place, and his hands claw at his back desperately. The kisses grow hungrier and fingernails dig into flesh and it starts to get almost painful. Derek wants to tell him to stop, but Reid lays his forehead against Derek's shoulder and lets out a shaky breath, his grip almost bruising.
"I'm always worried about you."
Derek thinks about suicide again that night. He thinks about sharp cuts along his wrists and lying in warm water and simply waiting for life to drift away. It's the first time he's had these thoughts since his teen years, and he is more disturbed by their return than their content.
Derek, Reid and Prentiss sit on the bed in Derek's hotel room, eating Chinese takeaway straight from the carton.
"No, she was definitely interested," Prentiss insisted. "So are you going to call her?"
Derek laughs more from nerves than anything else. "I don't think so. I don't really do-" he searches for a word, "that."
"What?" Reid asks, digging in his carton with a fork. "Relationships?"
Prentiss waves her chopsticks in his direction. "Yeah, well, newsflash: I don't think she was looking for a relationship."
Derek stays silent, guilt curling in his stomach.
Prentiss' grin falters slightly and her eyes flicker between him and Reid for a moment before the jarring ring of her cell phone cuts all of them off. "It's Hotch," she tells them as she excuses herself from the room.
Derek waits to hear the click of the door closing behind her before shifting on the bed and reaching out for Reid's hand, but he shrugs off the contact.
"I'm sorry," he says, not meeting Derek's eyes. "That was out of line."
"Is that what you want?" Derek presses. "A relationship?"
Reid's laugh is venomous. "Yeah, that's really what I-" Sarcasm sounds oddly out of place on his tongue. "No. Fucking hell, Derek, you still call me Reid." He takes a moment to compose himself, running a jittery hand through his hair."No, that isn't what I want."
It all comes down to a chase in the end. Local detectives have been working on the case for seven months, and the BAU were brought into it over three weeks ago, and it all ends with Derek pursuing the Unsub on foot.
He slams the lean man into the Boston sidewalk, pinning his hands behind his back as he cuffs him.
Hotch arrives less than a dozen seconds later, slightly short of breath. He helps tug the man to his feet and escort him to the police car five blocks away. Once the man is safety in the backseat Hotch slams the door shut and turns to Derek, eyes hard and sharp.
"What was that?"
Derek shrugs, because he doesn't truly understand the question and Hotch turns a piercing gaze on him.
"This isn't like you."
And Derek's lost, because he thought it was exactly what he would do.
Spencer's hair is in disarray and his eyes still half shut with sleep when he opens the door. If he's bothered by the intrusion, he doesn't show it, simply stepping aside to let Derek into the apartment.
As soon as the door is closed behind them Derek presses him against the wall, and Spencer lets out a yelp that is quickly muffled by a searing kiss. His hands ball into fists and unfurl at Derek's hips as he coaxes breathy gasps from Spencer's mouth by trailing kisses along the rough stubble on his neck.
One of Derek's hands buries itself in Spencer's hair, grabbing a fistful of hair simply to feel it in his hands, soft and thick, while the other hand snakes underneath Spencer's shirt, craving the sensation of skin on skin. Spencer is still warm from his bed and Derek's hands are cold from the outdoors and the contrast is delicious. He drags his teeth over the ridge of Spencer's Adam's apple and Spencer arches into the contact, pressing the entire length of his body into Derek.
Spencer's mouth hangs open, his lips parted in a silent gasp and Derek can't help but claim them for a kiss, using his grip on Spencer's hair to bring his head down to meet his. Strands of silken hair fall into his face as he pulls Spencer's bottom lip into his mouth, sucking it gently.
He pulls back minutely; still close enough to feel Spencer's unsteady breaths on his lips, hot and heavy. "Just for tonight," he begins, his voice surprisingly gravelly, "I'll be Derek and you can be Spencer."
Spencer nods eagerly. "Just for tonight," he confirms, and they both pretend to believe that distance is an option.
*The End*