Author's Note: Well . . . this one has been forever in the making, hasn't it? I remember sitting at my last job, tossing and turning the idea around in my mind as I graded papers, contemplating if it should be written or not . . . but, with a little push from my writing group on Facebook . . . it's happened.

Anyhoo . . . I listen to "I'm With You" fairly often, it being my favorite Avril song, and this idea was born as I was playing music and watching Elephants' Memory when trying to complete my homework . . . Great formula, as you can see. This is just a venture into the land of AU and children, playing around with that wince-inducing memory Spencer brought up of being tied to a goalpost for the amusement of some sick peers. I don't know how long this'll be, but hopefully less than twenty chapters . . . and expect lots of cameos to come; I dig references.

Warnings: Chapter names are borrowed from the "I'm With You" song lyrics. Major AU, kid!fic with two of my favorite CM boys, series-wide Criminal Minds spoilers, angst, melodrama . . . think of everything you hated about being a teenager, and multiply it by Spencer Reid. Ye have been warned.

Kudos: A great many thanks to Anneber03, silverwrym, and IntotheWilds, all of whom have corresponded with me in some part about this piece, cheered me greatly through some rough times, and encouraged my writing any time I expressed doubts. You guys are wonderful, and I don't know how to express my appreciation without giving some sort of terribly awkward . . . hug. *Gulps* Thanks!

Disclaimer: As much as it breaks my heart, I own neither Criminal Minds, nor Fanficnet, nor the wonderful ballad to which this story was written. I just adore all three from the bottom of the place where my heart is supposed to be. *Grins*

Reviews are tastier than candy, but there's seriously no obligation; I couldn't stop writing this if I tried.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

Standing On The Bridge, Waiting In The Dark

It was a dark and stormy night . . .

The clichéd words that had started a number of novel novels in oh-so-many years were a terribly overused set, one that didn't exactly lend themselves to stimulating the creative juices – especially not in ponderous young minds like the one that was thinking them currently.

Still, even as the phrase flitted across the often-acclaimed beautiful mind of one Spencer Reid, it wasn't exactly the idea of waxing poetic with which he was concerned. Fact was, it was pitch-black and thunderous outside, and the young genius could think of nothing so apt to describe the night.

Shaking his hair slightly of the water droplets that had begun to gather in his chestnut tresses, the boy looked around, reaching up a hand to wipe some of the precipitation from where it was smearing up his glasses, huffing a small sigh of frustration when his ever-clumsy fingers knocked the spectacles off his head – again – and left him scrabbling around on the ground to find them again.

With some luck, and after a few minutes of fumbling, Spencer finally straightened up, glasses in hand, and squinted.

Cracked. Again.

Just another thing to add to the long list of bad things that had made up this day. And the day before . . . Hell, the entire week, for that matter.

Reid shook his head, forcing back the barrage of thoughts and memories. No need to start thinking about that, not when he'd only just started to put everything out of his mind.

Sighing, the young boy glanced around in an effort to distract himself, to think about anything but what he was thinking about at the moment.

There wasn't much in the way of aversion.

As far as bus stops went, this one was a relatively plain one. Four plastic barrier walls that seemed about as stable as pieces of paper; already, they were rattling in their frames from the mild winds, and the rainwater running down them seemed to be weighing the dilapidated pieces down.

Spencer stared at the paths the rivulets made over the surface of the walls, faintly entranced by the patterns; bolts of lightning flashed at the corners of his eyes, and the steady roar of thunder kept him from drifting too far off from reality.

After a few more moments, he sat down on the hard, faded green bench that was cutting into the back of his knees. He was going to be there awhile; he might as well sit down, at least. He glanced around again, eyes catching over the ledge of the bridge on which this bus stop was sitting; if he were to exit the little cubicle, take a few steps to the right, and jump? He'd land some hundred feet below, into the unforgiving ground beneath.

He'd probably die.

Spencer hated that that idea didn't horrify him as much as it should have. Instead of shuddering at the idea that his doom could be so very near – if he should choose it – instead he regarded the idea curiously; to live, or not to live?

That was the question . . .

Startled by the direction of his own thoughts, Spencer shook his head violently, trying to clear it. What was the matter with him? Thinking about death, running away from home . . . ?

He looked guiltily down at the bag resting between his knees, and tried to bite back the wave of revulsion that hit him every time he remembered where he was, what he was doing. If he fell into those questions, it would be almost as bad as if he let the feelings bottled up inside all out at once.

Spencer's eyes caught on his wrists, on the rope burns and deep-dug bruises and scratching that littered the bottom of his arms.

Oh, yes, best just not to think about anything right then.

Ignoring the prickling feeling at the back of his eyes, Reid crossed his hands over his midsection in a protective, almost comforting manner. Outside, the thunder continued, louder than before.

Spencer hated thunder almost as much as he hated heights. Another bolt struck, closer than before, and the boy shivered, drawing his arms in tighter around himself, trying to find some semblance of warmth.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder. "You should probably put on a coat, kid."

Jumping nearly a foot in the air, Spencer only managed to hold back his startled yelp by biting down on his tongue – hard. Sucking back a hiss of pain as the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, the younger boy looked up to see who had come so close.

The boy standing next to him was significantly larger than Spencer himself – perhaps not as tall, but far more bulky in the ways that would protect him; firm, rounded muscles that were barely covered by a waffle-shirt flexed as the other boy crossed his arms, and a six-pack was clearly visible from the way his too-small attire lifted up, revealing a micro-sliver of skin before the waistband of his Lee's blocked the view. A jean-jacket hung casually over one shoulder, and the boy – man? He had to be at least 16 – leaned casually to the right in order to keep the thing on his arm.

Reid was startled from his analytical onceover when the stranger next to him spoke again, his voice a littler firmer and about an octave deeper.

"Kid? You listenin' to me?" The hand had pulled off of his shoulder as soon as he had reacted so violently, but it still hovered near his face, and, unwillingly, Spencer flinched back from the contact.

"Kid?"

A slight jolt of irritation shot through Spencer, and from that he gathered enough courage to look the other boy in the eyes – just briefly.

He had dark eyes, the same chocolate-y brown as his skin, and just as soft. They sparkled with good cheer, and Spencer remembered his mother telling him once that people with eyes that smiled like that would have laugh lines before middle-age.

Well, the other boy wasn't smiling now. He had one eyebrow raised as he regarded Spencer, the look on his face made all the more intimidating by the fact that he had apparently shaved his head.

For a few moments, cool silence flowed between the two, each saying a million things by not speaking a word.

And then Spencer looked away, trying to keep himself steady. "I'm – I'm not a kid."

There was a laugh from next to him. "That'd be more believable if your voice hadn't just cracked."

Spencer stiffened. "That's not an accurate measure of age. That would be like me saying that your muscular stature indicates that you've already passed puberty."

A pause, and then, "You've been looking at my muscular stature, eh?"

Spencer blushed furiously. "That's not what I – "

"Cool your jets. Kid." The hand that had taken up residence near his side shifted, and Reid felt a sinking motion next to him as the other boy took a seat on the bench as well. "I'm seventeen, actually, so you're right about being out of puberty. You, on the other hand," he snorted, "don't even look like you've started it."

"I'm twelve years old!" Spencer stuttered, indignant.

The other boy snorted. "Right, well, you're dangerously close to being a man, then . . . ?"

The indication that he was trying to get his name was obvious, and Reid smoothly ignored it. Bad enough that this guy wouldn't leave him to his thoughts in peace; there was no need to start getting chummy.

After a moment, the other kid let the pause slide off into nothingness, and gave Reid the same sort of keen, studying gaze that the genius had only moments before been giving him.

Spencer's hair was, as usual, in his face, and so he didn't see the look aimed his way, but he could feel the heat of eyes on him. It was a familiar feeling, that of being watched; and it never led to anything good.

Finally unable to ignore the twisting in his gut any further, Spencer glanced up sharply, taking the other boy by surprise and catching him studying Reid's form.

Just as he'd thought.

"Is there something you want?" Spencer spat out, trying not to think about how his mother would have been ashamed by his rude tone. Instead of apologizing, he stared at the other boy intently, taking note of every movement and their relative positions to each other, determined not to be taken by surprise again.

At least the young man had the good grace to look embarrassed – for a second. He brushed it off quickly enough, his voice just as smooth and confident as before when he responded. "Just trying to figure out why a ki – ah, boy your age is running away from home, is all."

Spencer frowned. "Who says I'm running away?"

Stupid question. The guy pointed to the bag still tucked beneath his knees. "I just figure that most kids don't carry around their backpacks everywhere they go."

"I stay late at school."

The other boy raised his eyebrow. "It's almost ten o'clock at night."

Now the blush was back.

"Awfully late for class, buck."

Spencer turned away as much he could, his body twisting until a number of inches separated him from the stranger. Eyes cast downwards, he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the ever-present crackle of thunder in the air. "I like school."

"Clearly," the other boy mused, his tone indicating the smile that Reid couldn't see. "I mean, what other reason would a kid have for being out so late with an armful of stuff waiting for transportation."

Spencer bit his lip to vent some of the tension that had him squaring up his shoulders. "No reason."

"No reason," the other boy repeated, his voice only showing a faint shade of the disbelief he was clearly feeling.

Spencer gulped, and shook his head. "Nope."

There was a long, tense moment between the two, each evaluating the other one.

"So, kid – "

"Would you please," Spencer spoke through clenched teeth, "please refrain from calling me that?"

"You got a name?"

The answer was instantaneous, instinctive. "No."

Next to him, he could feel the other boy's surprise. "Really?"

Spencer nodded once, primly, before resolving again to ignore the stranger.

It didn't work for long. "So, you're out here alone, late at night, when it's cold and stormy. Just a boy with no name, and no reason?" The boy gave a short laugh, and leaned back into the bench once more. "You're a highly underprivileged person, Pretty Boy."

Spencer's head jolted up at that. "What did you just call me?"

The other boy looked more than a little surprised at the angry reaction he received. "You won't tell me your name, and I'm not supposed to call you 'kid.' And I don't see any problem with just stating facts – you're very . . . pretty."

Though the smile on the other's face was congenial, with no hidden agenda, Reid had been through something like this too many times before not to be wary. He flinched away from the gentle tone, the blood draining from his face as the young genius did everything in his power to get some distance for himself.

His actions didn't go unnoticed. Within seconds, that hand was on his shoulder again, that voice entirely too close to his ear. "What's wrong?"

What's wrong, Poindexter?

Why are you crying – can't you get loose?

Why are you such a baby?

Baby, baby, baby!

"No!" Spencer gasped out, lurching away from the gently fingers on his shoulder, struggling to get away from the potential threat.

For a moment, the grip on his arm tightened, and Reid flailed, certain that some pain was about to follow, mentally bracing himself for a blow to the jaw . . . but . . .

. . . but the next time he shifted, still desperate to get away from the unfamiliar contact, the hand slid easily off his shoulder, and there was nothing to stop Reid from fleeing to the corner of the booth.

He stood there, hunched over and shivering, peeking out from the tendrils of hair in his face to see the other boy now also on his feet, a look of concern written on his face.

The kid took a step forward, hand extended, and Spencer recoiled back, pressing himself deeper against the wall, as far away as he could get. Safe.

The other boy froze at that, a flash of something in his eyes as he took in the quaking form before him. Slowly, he straightened up, hand raised in a reconciliatory, surrendering manner.

"Easy, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Spencer's wide eyes stayed open and aware, and the shaking didn't let up. He watched the boy before him, something like fear quivering in his stomach as he kept his eyes trained on the stronger, larger figure.

After a moment, the other boy spoke again, his voice lower and softer than before, as if talking to a skittish animal.

"My name's Derek. Derek Morgan." He took a step forward, and Spencer hunched his shoulders again, defensive. But he didn't back any further away. Perhaps because he couldn't – but the other boy, Derek, seemed to take it as a sign of encouragement. He shifted closer.

"I'm sorry if I scared you."

Closer still.

"I was just trying to help."

Spencer had to bite back a scoff at that.

Help?

No one ever helps.

It wasn't the teenage angst that often kept youth so alive and so fresh; the genius had learned through a lifetime of example that if he wanted something, he had to fight for it himself.

Alone.

Always alone.

The boy was tugged from his thoughts when he looked up and saw that Derek was right next to him, hands still help up peacefully, and a concerned look in his eye that Spencer had only ever seen in one other person before.

His mother.

The younger boy gulped, and forced himself to stay still. It was purely reflex, the fleeing and retreating. Something he'd picked up and adapted after years and years of being bullied. Usually, it worked well enough at getting people to leave him alone.

But not Derek. The older boy remained standing, an almost kindly expression written on his handsome face.

Spencer swallowed again. He had to do something to escape, to take control of the situation. Anything.

Even talking.

He took in a deep breath, faking calm, before finally letting a few words out. "I j-just . . . I thought that someone would be here by now."

Derek looked surprised – whether it was at the fact that the younger boy had finally spoken, or the words he had said, Spencer couldn't be entirely sure.

"Kid . . . are you waiting for a ride? This late?"

Still cautious, Spencer nodded miserably. When he didn't say anything, something seemed to click into place for the older boy, and realization flooded Derek's eyes.

"The bus? You're here for the bus?"

No response. Not that he exactly needed it. Derek sighed, and ran a hand through where his hair would have been. "Oh, man, kid . . . the busses stop running at six in the evening. Eight, on Fridays. It's already been shut down for hours."

His voice was soft, and it was totally illogical, but Spencer felt tears welling up in his eyes even before Derek finished his sentence.

He'd missed his chance when he missed the bus. There was no escaping, and he would have to go back now, explain everything to his mom . . . or, worse, pretend that everything was just fine . . .

Spencer hadn't realized that he was gasping for air as the thoughts spun dizzyingly throughout his head; didn't know that he was almost bent over double in the booth as fear and dread slammed into him, over and over and over again.

Didn't notice a gentle hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles into his back and softly calling, "Pretty Boy . . . "

For a few minutes, they stayed like that, Spencer trying to get control of himself, to reign in his emotions, while Derek stayed utterly still, solid and quiet and soothing for this person that he had just met.

Finally, both of the boys' breathing slowed to a normal pace, and they stood there, closer than would seem okay, both appearing completely lost in their own thoughts.

Just as another roll of thunder crackled across the sky, Spencer looked up, and the blank expression on his face utterly terrified Derek; the boy looked ad though the fight that had been in him so resolutely at the beginning of their conversation had just faded away totally, like he was only half-there.

Or not even at all.

"I guess I'll be going, then," he said, his voice flat and lifeless that Derek actually shuddered.

Spencer moved forward mechanically, hand reaching out for the bag he'd left behind on the seat, and Derek realized that he was completely serious.

His hand shot forward, lightly gripping the forearm of the kid, and it was a sign just how far gone the other was when his only reaction was to look up, a mild startled flash in those brilliant hazel eyes of his.

"Kid . . . it's late. It's pouring rain, and freezing cold, and dark as hell. You can't go walking around out there."

The boy shrugged. "I do it all the time. Once more won't make a difference." He moved his arm to escape from Derek's grip, but the older boy only tightened the hold he had further.

"You're all by yourself."

Spencer gave a bitter laugh. "Aren't I always?"

"This – this isn't a good part of town."

"Which is why I'd like to get going." The boy made a final tug on his wrist, actually managing to wrench it free and stumbling back a bit in his surprise. His back slammed against the plastic wall of the booth, and he bit back a small yelp of pain.

When Spencer looked up, Derek was there again, entirely too close for his comfort, and he flinched away, some instinctive part of him still trying to retreat for safety's sake.

Derek froze. The way this kid was acting, it was as though he expected to be attacked at any and every second – like he was scared, truly afraid, of Derek, of all that he was and could do.

Something that almost irritated the older boy, seeing as he meant no harm at all.

Once more, he stepped back, checking himself and taking care to give the kid every bit of the space he seemed to need. Very slowly, the boy before him showed visible signs of relaxation; some color returned to his face, his eyes stopped darting around so wildly, and his form stopped shaking quite so badly. After a few more moments, the younger boy lifted his eyes, and once again nearly knocked Derek back with that startling gaze of his.

Then, and only then, did the older boy speak.

"Look, kid," he started slowly, "I can't just let you walk out into that mess; no one's with you, and it's nasty as fuck this time of night out there on the streets."

The younger boy shrugged. "I need to get home."

"Well, then, I'm taking you there."

He shook his head. "You're not – I m-mean, I just met you; I'm not taking you to see where I live."

Derek raised a single eyebrow. "You don't really have a lot of options, boy; unless you want to spend the night in here with me, either I'm taking you to your place, or you're coming to mine."

Again, that small head covered with wild brown curls shook back and forth. "That's not – you can't tell me what to – "

"I'm not," Derek cut in coolly. "I just gave you three options, kid. You can pick where ya hang your hat tonight, but you're not going anywhere unless I can make sure that you get there safely."

The other boy glared. "What do you care? I don't even know you!"

"What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't, actually."

Derek shrugged. "Fine, Kid. To answer your question? You're right, I don't know you a bit; you could be some child prodigy with straight A's who plays the piano in-between volunteering at the animal shelter, or you could be one of those gang-recruit little punk-asses who sells X when he should be in school. And even though I pray it's the former and not the latter, in the end, it doesn't fucking matter; you're here with no one by your side, and that's not a good place to be."

He took a breath, and continued. "You listening to the night out there?" He turned his head slightly, and the younger boy did the same, his eyes bright with either tears or curiosity, his entire form rigid. "There's nothing but the rain. No footsteps on the ground." Slowly, Derek turned back. "I might know a lot about people, or about you – but I know exactly what's going on. I've been just where you are, alone late at night with a bag of m'things and trying to find an escape . . ."

Maybe it was Spencer's imagination, but he could swear that Derek bit back a sniffle as he stepped towards him; the older boy's hand dashed up to his eyes, as if wiping away some unseen tear.

His voice shook as he finished his little tirade. "I – I know that if I leave you alone right here, right now, this time . . . that there won't be a next time. And I also know that I'll be responsible for anything you do or do not do as soon as you're out of my sight. And I'm not letting that happen."

Spencer just stood there, mouth hanging slightly open, trying to comprehend everything that had just happened. When he tried to speak, it felt like there was no air in the room. "You can't – "

"I can, and I did. I will. So you'd better make up your mind – because, willing or not, I'm with you, kid."

And just like that, all of the fight drained out of Spencer.

Things were just how he had always known them to be; someone bigger and tougher and stronger was telling him what to do, and he was chanceless to try and resist.

What would be the point, anyway? Especially when this Derek had already made his dominance – and stubbornness – plainly clear?

He sighed. "Do whatever you want, then."

Derek frowned. "That's not how it works; I asked what you wanted."

"Right," Spencer nodded morosely. "And that, I'm not going to get. So why don't you just damn well decide, Derek Morgan." He said the words as though they left a nasty taste in his mouth.

The older boy nearly took a step back at the tone, his surprise written all over his face. He looked almost . . . hurt.

But any betraying emotions were quickly wiped off of his face, Derek's impeccable control slipping a mask back over his feelings, and he regarded the boy before him with curiosity and confusion.

Nothing more.

It was only after a few moments of watching the kid squirm under his gaze that Derek finally voiced his thoughts.

"Fine, then. We'll stay at my place tonight; I'll take you home as soon as the sun rises."

The kid nodded, and Derek bent over, making to grab his backpack – but a gasp and a skinny white hand shooting out to grab the straps first had him stopping in his tracks.

"Okay," he spoke slowly, regarding the boy before him, clutching his bag as though it was his life, eyes still wide with fear and mistrust.

"Okay. I gotcha. Don't touch the personal gear. Okay." He backed up a step. "Let's get going, then."

A look of surprise crossed over the kid's delicate features, and he blinked. "You're not going to – you're not going to take it from me?"

Derek frowned. "You don't want me to; why would I?"

There was a flash of something unreadable in the boy's eyes, and Derek couldn't take the time to analyze it; the storm was getting worse. He turned around, calling over his shoulder, "Just follow me; I'm real close by."

There was a moment of silence, and Derek tuned around, irritated when he saw that the other hadn't moved a damn inch yet.

"Kid – "

"It's Reid. People call me Reid."

Derek froze in place, surprise nailing him to exact spot in which he stood for a few seconds while he stared at the boy before him, completely and utterly shocked that he'd managed to get even that small bit of information.

And then, after a moment of appraisal, he smiled.

"Reid . . . fits you, Pretty Boy."

The boy – Reid – flushed slightly, and Derek lightly draped a hand over his shoulder.

"Let's go, then. Kid."

Author's Endnote: Okay, not much getting done, yet . . . but don't blame me! It's weird, writing those two as not-best-buds, honestly. or lovers. *Coughs* Ahyways, I'll post more in a week-ish. Gotta get back to work, though, now. Adieu!