A/N: So, in these past days since I posted the first two chapters, I've received more alerts, reviews, and favorites than I have I think on all my other stories combined! A huge thank you goes out to all of you; here's your reward!

~Shadow

Derek Morgan hugged himself close behind a brick wall as a cruiser rolled slowly past, barely breathing as an industrial flashlight illuminated all the shadowed corners around him.

He knew he'd been wrong to run and knew there'd be hell to pay for it later, especially from his team. He already knew what they thought of his penchant for dealing with situations on his own without asking for back-up; Hotch had made that impeccably clear only a few months ago.

But even that dressing-down had been nothing to what he received when he got home, seeing Spencer's lanky frame curled miserably on the couch, waiting for him to come back and trying so hard to pretend it didn't bother him… Derek had never felt so guilty in his life and it had nearly been enough to cure him of his 'dangerous bravado,' as his lover had so elegantly put it; Spencer hadn't even had to say a word.

But tonight was a different story. This wasn't bravado or a desire to prove himself once again. There were some things that should never be known, that should never be acknowledged aloud; his childhood, what had happened to him… it didn't bear repeating.

Hotch had been so close, entirely too close to realizing what had happened, and Derek couldn't stand that; and if Hotch had nearly realized the truth of it, then Spencer had to be five steps even closer and that scared him more than anything else. He would break if he saw the pity he knew would be in the genius' eyes every time he looked at him, if things between them changed because of what had happened.

Spencer was the very best thing he had, the person that made he want to keep living when he walked into another little hell on earth and wished he didn't have to keep doing this. He wouldn't be able to stand it if Spencer knew the truth about the dirtiness of his past.

He was going to fix this on his own.

He'd seen the director's newest toy yesterday, had recognized the signs from his own forbidden past, and hated himself again for the weakness that had made him hide his shame for so many years and let the predator take another victim. If he'd been stronger, if he hadn't been so damn scared, he'd have been able to prevent this from ever happening, from leaving another boy at the mercy of a molester. He was an FBI agent, supposedly the best of the best; he was supposed to protect people from the world's evil, not leave them to fend for themselves against it.

But he was a coward and he was weak and in the end he hadn't been able to do a single damn thing because of it. He hated that most of all.

Morgan shot a quick look around the wall as the cruiser rolled onto the next street, oblivious of how close he'd been; by now they had to have discovered his absence so he could only assume that the heightened patrols he'd seen were just for him. He doubted anything else would have had Gordinski stirring up the station like a bull in a beehive, or whatever the saying was.

He didn't realize he was waiting for Spencer to correct him until the correction didn't come; Spencer would have known what the actual saying was, he always knew shit like that.

Part of Derek curled up inside of him, feeling alone and abandoned out here on the street knowing that no one knew where he was or what he was doing. Even when he didn't want it, when Derek was out on a mission he knew in some part of him that he'd always have back-up and though he wouldn't admit it, he counted on it.

It was much harder to do this when he knew that if things went south, and he was expecting them to go there in a big way and do it fast, there'd be no rescue this time.

But this is how I want it, he told himself firmly, forcibly shaking off the doubts and focusing on the building and road in front of him to the exclusion of all else. I will survive this.

The dark road was clear, no sign of anyone around here at this time except for one tiny light in the one of the basement windows in the youth center. The man was there, all right, like he usually was; apparently more than one habit hadn't changed, though working late was far more innocent than the other things he was guilty of doing.

Pulling his worn leather jacket closer around him, Morgan eased out onto the street, intending to make a line for the back door and end what he should have finished a long time ago. He made his steps as silent as he knew how, ghosting across the street, totally focused on reaching that one door.

When a set of brilliant headlights flicked on and painted him as clear as day against the backdrop of the night, he froze for one critical moment; that was all it took.