A/N: I don't own Criminal Minds.

Morgan tries to call Spencer's number numerous times. He just can't bring himself to press call. He'll dial the number, stare at it on his screen, clear it, and put his phone away.

It's not that he doesn't want to make the call. It's just that the circumstances are not ideal. He's an in-the-closet hockey player with a new team in the nation's capital. This isn't the turn-your-head places he's been in before that would leave him alone in his personal life as long as he made appearances at events. This is a place where he could very well get stalked around the city.

He hasn't even told the publicist he likes men as well as women. He's sure she'll freak. He always tells the publicist and owner just so there's no surprises, but he always swears them to secrecy. He's told a few teammates before, but he rarely shares openly. He finds it easier to just date women.

It took him along time to admit he was bisexual; he always staunchly defended his heterosexuality. He won't deny that he had on more than one occasion acted homophobic.

Until he moved into Danielsen Hall at Boston University and met Mark, he could not admit that he even remotely considered men attractive.

He had walked into his room and there had been Mark lying on his bed; his pride flag sitting on his desk. Morgan had gawked at it for a good minute before Mark coughed and glowered at him.

"I hope that's not a problem," Mark had said with an edge of hostility.

"Actually…" Morgan had begun but trailed off when Mark sent him another sharp look, "No, it should be fine as long as you keep your hands to yourself."

"You're not my type," Mark had laughed.

Morgan had been pretty offended about the comment but couldn't figure out why.

After a few months of living together Morgan had realized that they had a lot in common. They had both flourished in high school athletics and academics. They were both mamas' boys and they had played their respective fields in the dating world with ease.

One night in late October, they had gotten shit-faced at a hockey party after a big win. They had stumbled home together, Morgan more drunk than Mark. Mark had been fumbling with his keys and trying to keep Morgan from falling, when his hand had moved to Morgan's hip to keep him up.

When he had finally got the door open, Morgan had pushed him against the door, and kissed him so hard Mark's head reverberated off of the door.

It had taken Mark a second before he could push Morgan away.

"All right big guy," Mark had said turning Morgan towards his bed, "I told you you're not my type."

Morgan had grunted in response; Mark had maneuvered him to bed and went to bed himself.

Morgan hadn't been confronted until Monday after practice. Morgan had been lying on his bed reading his criminology textbook when Mark came in from his late Poli-Sci class.

"What's up?" Morgan had asked.

"We gotta talk man."

"About what?"

"About Saturday night."

"Dude, if I puked on your shit, I'm sorry, man. I'll replace it, I swear."

"It's not that."

"Okay, so what?"

"You kissed me."

"Fuck no, I didn't."

"Yeah, I was opening up the door and the next thing I knew I was against it and you were pressed against me."

"Bullshit, I bet you came on to me."

"Man, I told you you're not my type."

"Whatever, you came onto me," Morgan had yelled and walked out of the room.

Mark hadn't come after him, which was good. Morgan had felt like he wanted to punch something, and as he had walked, he had realized it wasn't Mark's fault. He had known that Mark had only been being a good friend. But he hadn't wanted to admit that he was even slightly attracted to him or any man for that matter.

He had walked around campus, ate at another dorm, and finally ended back in Danielsen Hall.

"I don't think you came onto me," he had admitted resignedly when he walked into their room.

Mark had just nodded.

"Listen, I'm sorry for that."

"It's okay; we were drunk."

"That doesn't make it okay. I'm an asshole and I know it. I tried to take my fucked-up-ness out on you. You didn't deserve that."

"Seriously, no harm, no foul. I just want you to admit to yourself that you like men and that's okay."

"Please, don't give me a pass." He had choked out and then mumbled, "God he made me this."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Never mind."

"You can't just say shit like that and not expect me to wonder."

"I shouldn't have said it."

"You don't have to tell me, but it seems like whatever it is needs to be shared. You sure as fuck don't need to tell me, but you'd better think of telling someone."

"You're as good as anyone."

Mark had just sat looking at him like he was ready for anything. Morgan had weighed the pros and cons in his mind and then started his story.

"When I was ten my dad died, he got shot right in front of me." Morgan had paused to take in Mark's expression. Mark looked sympathetic but not so much that he was pitying Morgan. "After that I became a sort of hoodlum, so two summers later my momma signed me up for this youth football team through the youth center in our neighborhood. It turned out I was really good; my coach was this upstanding guy and he became this father-figure to me. I kept playing through the center and when I turned fourteen, my coach started inviting me up to his hunting cabin. At first, I thought I was this big shot 'cause here I was going on special trips where he'd let me drink beer and shoot guns and shit. It was the best thing, until he started getting me so drunk that I'd let him do whatever he wanted to me. We'd drink and then he'd start doing shit to me."

"Shit, man."

"I just; the thought of being with another man…" he had trailed off.

Mark had just looked at him empathy seeping out of him.

"When I start to like the idea of being with another guy, I think that maybe I deserved what he did to me. Maybe I was okay with him doing that to me. Maybe I did consent somehow. And maybe I'll become him."

Morgan had put his head in his hands.

"Don't ever fucking think that. That man was not gay or bisexual or whatever the fuck; that man was a perverted pedophile who used children to get off. You're nothing like him. Liking men does not make you like him."

"But kissing you when you were too drunk to consent does."

"Fuck, man," he had breathed. "I… But you were drunk too and you stopped when I told you to."

"I should've asked; I should've had consent."

"Next time, I know you will, but what happened between us doesn't make you him and liking men doesn't make you him. Derek, if you like men, that's okay and if you like women, that's okay but don't let some sick fuck rule your life."

"Easier said than done."

"Then let me help you."

"Okay."

"I promise we can do this."

And from that moment on, Mark had kept his promise to help Morgan with his relationship issues. He had become as much as an anchor for Morgan as his momma and sisters.

Just as Morgan clears the screen for the tenth time, his phone chirps with a text message.

fucking call him, it reads.

He smiles; Mark knows him eerily well. If it wasn't for the fact that they aren't attracted to each other and Mark's hygiene habits irk him, they would make a great couple. They know each other so well.

fuck off, he responds.

i knew it

fuck you very much

just do it…aren't you like a big nhl hockey player?

fine

fucking works every time

fuck you

He spitefully dials Spencer's number. He almost hangs up because spitefully dialing someone's number is about the most immature thing he's done this week, but a rushed voice picks up the phone, "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Derek Morgan. We met at…"

"At the bar. I remember."

"Yeah, I was just calling to see if you'd like to get together sometime."

"As a date?"

"Uh, yeah, I mean, I guess."

"It's either or date or it's not."

The man seems agitated and rushed. Morgan almost hangs up, but then he remembers the man's hands and what thoughts of him and a hypothetical date with him has done to him over the last few days.

"Yes, a date."

"Okay."

"How about this weekend?"

"I'm out of town right now."

"Oh, okay."

"But maybe next week."

"Okay."

"I mentioned that I worked at Quantico, correct?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm an FBI agent, I have a lot of cases, and they pop up randomly. I have no statistical data to explain the occurrence of our cases. It's not easy for me to date."

"I can understand that."

"Okay."

"So how about you call me when you get in and we'll go from there."

"All right."

"Good. I look forward to seeing you."

"Me too."

POV SWITCH

Reid's phone trills at the most inopportune moments. He's in the conference room with Hotch when his phone warbles. He excuses himself before he answers it. Derek sounds unconfident and hesitant, and Reid becomes immediately defensive because while Ethan was never unconfident his wariness to say date was always there.

Reid's patience wanes and he comes off short because he doesn't want history to repeat itself and this case with Frank and Gideon is harrowing to say the very least. But Reid starts to feel somewhat empathetic for Derek, when he realizes how much it sounds like Derek is trying to sort things out. He sounds unconfident and hesitant but not insincere. He promises to call and he does after they get back.

Derek offers to pick him up after work someday and Reid thinks that's the best way for him not to back out. Derek takes him to a fancy French restaurant in Fredericksburg and he feels underdressed in his sweater vest. Reid flinches at the prices, but Derek has no hesitancy in recommending the most expensive items on the menu. He orders chicken while Derek orders crab. The older man is so confident in himself that it puts him at ease.

"So you're an FBI agent?"

"Yes, I work for the BAU… the be.."

"The behavioral analysis unit."

"Yes, how did you?"

"It was my second dream job."

"And I assume you do your first?" Reid asks even though he knows.

"Yeah, I play hockey."

"That's the NHL, correct?"

"Yeah, I play for the Washington Capitals; they just picked me up from Ottawa."

"That must be difficult being a gay man; professional sports aren't always nice to gay men."

Derek sputters, "Well, I'm not, I, uh."

"You're not out or you're not gay?"

"Neither, listen, I'm a bisexual man who has never let on that he likes men to the professional sports world."

"Then I don't think this will work between us."

"Don't jump so fast, Pretty Boy, I promise I'll make us work."

Reid just nods and goes back to his food. They don't talk about their relationship anymore or Derek's job. They talk about police work and their childhoods. The trip back to DC is long but not unpleasant. Derek plays soft jazz music, they talk a little, but the silences aren't uncomfortable. Reid is almost sad when they pull up in front of the brownstone he lives in.

"I had a wonderful time tonight," Derek says as he stops in front of Reid's apartment.

"There is only a 1 in 8 chance that contact will be made after a first date," Reid says quickly because he hates the newly awkward silence that looms.

"Trust me, Pretty Boy, there's an 8 in 8 chance that I will contact you."

Reid is taken aback and he knows it shows clearly on his face. Derek smiles and winks at him. He just sputters a little.

"May I kiss you?" Derek asks. Reid is even more taken aback by this request but nods quickly.

Derek cups his cheek and kisses him with just enough pressure. Reid leans further into it and revels in the dry lips and callused hand. Derek pulls away and smiles at him.

"I will be seeing you."

"Good night."

"'Night, Pretty Boy."

A/N: Feedback is always much appreciated. Thank you to SSA Sarah, pinkloid, phantomreg, ifreakinglovefanfiction, nannily, and ilovereid. I read and loved all of your reviews!