"For children are innocent and love justice, while most of us are wicked and naturally prefer mercy."- G.K. Chesterton
Spencer heard the few low beeps that usually proceeded the alarm setting off and ringing through the cold stone halls of the vaults, and raised his head from his book. A last low beep signalled that it was Derek entering, not an unwelcoming intruder, and he smiled to himself and listened to the sounds of him coming closer. He noticed immediately that there were two sets of footfalls; Derek's long steady gait, and a scrambled, dragged pair.
"Honey, I'm home!" he called, a heavy thud on the stone floor beyond the lounge.
Reid set his book aside and pushed up off the sofa, padding barefoot across the rug-covered flagstone into what was once an archive vault under a grand library styled in twelfth century gothic architecture, and was now a functional library, rows of mahogany shelves crammed with books and making cosy little reading nooks. In the middle of the largest room in their subterranean dwelling, the crossroads to all the alleys of books, Derek stood with his hip cocked and a hand gripping the back of another man's head, forced to kneel. The stranger was unshaven and dishevelled, stocky, white, dirty brown hair and sore-looking steely blue eyes.
"Brought you a present." He grinned, enough to display his sharp fangs.
"Hey man, what the fuck!" the man struggled, but a twist of Morgan's hand made him still again with a cry of pain.
"Happy birthday." He went on.
"Derek," he cocked his head, biting playfully at his bottom lip with a sharp tooth, "you know I don't care about my birthday that much."
"I know." Derek shrugged. "But this is just a little something. Can't let the big seven-five-one pass unmarked, can we?" He tugged the man up, ignoring his protests. "Shall we?" he asked, extending a hand to Reid.
Spencer took it, falling into step beside his lover as they headed out of the west corridor, low ambient lighting switching on as they went. They reached the end of the corridor, and a heavy metal door which opened with a key code. Inside it was bare but for a strip light on the low ceiling, a metal frame bed with a plain clean mattress, and a toilet and sink.
"A-are-" their captive stuttered, unable to hide his fear, "are you guys gonna rape me?"
They'd have been able to sense his fear even if he was silent, because they could both hear his heartbeat drumming in his chest.
"No," Morgan sighed exasperatedly, "we are not going to rape you."
"We're going to kill you." Spencer informed him matter-of-factly. As the man started to panic, Morgan pushed him inside the cell gracelessly, pushing the door closed behind him.
"So?" Reid prompted, as they both watched through the reinforced glass panel of the door the prisoner banging on the metal, his blows and his shouts silenced.
"Rapist." Morgan informed.
"Ah." Spencer nodded knowingly. "Ironic, that rapists are always the ones to ask if we're going to rape them."
"Fourteen year old girls are too old for him." Derek went on in a low growl. "Paroled on a five-year sentence for raping a minor. Fucked up human justice."
"Until twenty years ago," Spencer said, amused, "you were part of that human justice system."
"Feels like a lifetime ago." He murmured, watching as their captive continued to beg them, meeting their eyes and shouting 'please', although they couldn't hear it and were unaffected by the sight of it. "He's on something, too. Crack, I think, but won't know what for sure until we bottle him."
"Can we do it tomorrow?" Reid asked. "He deserves to spend the night knowing he's going to die."
"Of course, baby."
Derek slipped his hand around the other's slim waist, and they headed back down the corridor. In the brighter but completely artificial light of the kitchen, Spencer noticed the cracked skin along the tops of Morgan's ears and frowned.
"You were out too long again, you'll get sun sick." He chided, hands fluttering up to gently trace over the damage.
"It's nothing." Derek dismissed, but he kept still while his lover gently fussed him.
"It's not nothing. I know it hurts, and I don't like you in pain." He muttered. "At least this kind of pain."
"It's not so bad."
"You're not a day walker, Derek." The tone was still chiding, but affectionate and caring. "Your high sun immunity might be useful, but it's not absolute."
"I know." Morgan said, taking a hold of the other man's wrist and drawing his fingers away from inspecting his ears to kiss the palm of his hand, and then each elegant strong finger. Smiling, Reid pulled away, stepping up to the counter and pulling aside a metal panel to reveal two draws.
"Something cold or something warm?"
"Cold." Derek moved to get glasses out of a mounted cupboard, and ice cubes from the bag in the fridge, discreetly styled in sleek silver metal like the rest of the kitchen.
"How about the bottle Rossi gave us last month?" Spencer asked over his shoulder, relishing the feel of the cold from the open refrigerated draw. Morgan nodded, setting the glasses down on the counter island, giving them a shake so the ice cubes rattled for good measure. "Speaking of Rossi," he went on, forcing unscrewing the dark brown bottle, "he's invited us to a party next month."
"Party?" Morgan raised an eyebrow, watching as Reid filled their glasses liberally with the deep red liquid, a little thinner than base blood, mixed with alcohol as they knew it was.
"For his donor. He's going to turn her."
"Seaver? Finally." Morgan watched as Reid screwed the lid back in face and put it back in the cold draw. "She's been with him, what? Four years?"
"Most donors retire after three." Spencer commented, as they took up their glasses and headed towards their lounge. "Only two percent of donors are ever turned."
"Yeah, but she wants this." Derek commented as they settled on the sofa. "And not for the immortality. She wants it for the justice. I like her."
"Me too." Spencer agreed, sipping from his glass.
"Is this her?" the other wondered, swirling his bloodscotch in his glass.
"No. He feeds exclusively from her. So exclusively, he doesn't even share her with Hotch."
"Ah," Derek chuckled, drinking deeply, "she must be his protégé."
"Do you ever think of getting a donor?" Spencer asked casually, though something in his eyes gave him away as anticipating the answer. Morgan looked considerate, brow creasing.
"I've thought about it, just considering it." Derek reasoned. "But I don't really want a donor. Not right now. I like how we do things; we're a team."
"We are." Spencer agreed, settling himself into the curve of Morgan's body, laying his head down on his chest and listened to the slow steady thud of the other vampire's heart.
"Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors." - Alejandra Pizarnik