A/N: I'm very excited that "Gypsy Dreams" has been nominated in two categories in the Profiler's Choice Awards! Check it out in the Chit Chat on Author's Corner forum, and please vote!

Thanks,

Seds

With Spencer in his arms and the heat of his kiss still on Derek's lips, the tendrils of madness that had snaked into Derek's mind began to recede. He pulled the young man closer, burying his nose in the curls on his neck, inhaling him—tart and sweet, pure and unwashed. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he chanted softly as Spencer squeezed him back.

"I love you, too." They pulled away enough to smile at each other. Just then, the sound of a penny whistle playing high, cheerful notes wafted into the air. They turned to see Emily, JJ, and Penelope gathered around the fire. Clad in a slinky white gown like a Greek goddess, JJ was playing, and Emily and Pen were in long full skirts, one of colorful patchwork, the other a deep purple hue. They had studious expressions on their faces and were swooping gracefully around one another in a mock-formal dance as if at a royal ball. Gideon was standing off to the side, cigar in hand, looking benevolently amused.

Spencer's attention was caught and he moved to get a better view. His thin body swayed in time to the music, and Derek could sense how eager he was to join the impromptu festivities. "Go," he said in Spencer's ear.

Spencer gave him a worried look. "No, Derek, you're not feeling well. We should go inside, you need to lie down for a while."

"I'm fine. And nothing would make me feel better than to see you having fun. Go, dance for me. I want you to."

Spencer brightened, but he looked searchingly into Derek's eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Well... You come, too, then."

"No, babe. I'm not quite up for dancing yet. You go." He gave Spencer a playful shove. Spencer jokingly stumbled as if to fall before fluidly righting himself. He straightened his trousers with exaggerated dignity, and then flashed a grin before striding off to join the ladies in their dance.

Derek went to stand under a nearby tree where he had a better view. Spencer was a picture of wrecked elegance; tall and skinny, long legs like a colt, he had taken Penelope in his arms and was waltzing her around. His hair was wild, his clothes old and baggy, but he held himself like a gypsy king and his grip on the pretty blonde woman was sure and confident as he guided her in the path of a large circle, while JJ played and Emily whirled and clapped in accompaniment.

Derek couldn't have stopped the huge grin coming onto his face if he'd tried; he felt a mixture of pride and love and wistfulness—he wished he could give Spencer everything he ever wanted, everything he deserved, but his livelihood was dependent on the draw of a card, and now that he'd thrown his lot in with this crew, he wasn't sure he'd ever have enough money to offer Spencer anything away from the traveling life, even if he could convince him to leave.

He'd just forced himself to push the worry aside so he could fully enjoy the colorful spectacle before him when he became aware of a presence at his shoulder. He turned to see Hotch standing next to him. Derek gave a nod, a little frisson of surprise running through him; Hotch hadn't made a sound as he approached.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" the stern-looking man said, crossing his arms.

Derek studied Hotch's features. He wasn't sure how the man felt about him. He'd sensed strong mistrust at first, perhaps even dislike, but now he seemed merely dispassionate. "Yeah, they are. All of them."

Something like a smile tugged at Hotch's lips. "One in particular, of course."

Derek started to get riled up, but saw only genuine amusement and no ill-will in Hotch's expression, so he relaxed and nodded. "Of course."

"They're so alive," Hotch added.

Derek gave him a puzzled look, but agreed, "Yeah. That's a good way to put it."

They stood quietly, watching the fireside antics and enjoying the music. Then, Hotch said conversationally, "So, you're joining our little company, I hear." Derek raised an eyebrow, not sure where the man was going with that, but he nodded again.

"That's right. I tried my best to get Spencer to come with me, but the little bastard wouldn't leave. So, I didn't have much choice," Derek said lightly. Hotch didn't move his gaze from the campsite or even appear to have heard. But after a moment, he took in a deep breath.

"You'll regret it," he said simply.

Derek shot a perturbed look at Hotch, but before he could respond, Garcia produced an old fiddle and bow and handed them to Spencer, and after checking the tuning, he began to play a lively Irish jig. The girls began dancing together, giggling as they stepped and swirled to the music.

It made Derek smile and forget about responding to Hotch's odd comment. Instead, a question he'd often wondered came to his lips. "How'd Spencer come to live with you all, anyway?" he asked.

Hotch sighed, clearly giving serious consideration to his answer. Derek fully expected him to brush off his query, but instead Hotch launched into what sounded like a fond reminiscence.

"It was a long time ago. Spencer was little more than a tot, three years of age at most. We were in New York at the time. It was just Gideon, Emily and I back then, plus a couple of people who have since gone their own way. In those days, it was Gideon who was the magician.

"He always made a point of going into the poorest part of town and doing a special performance for the children, for free. We had a big group that day—dirty, ragged little creatures, not a one of whom had seen a shiny coin in his whole life. Spencer was at the front, just a tiny thing, but he had the sweetest face. He listened and watched our every move—it looked as if he was memorizing us, as if he could read our thoughts.

"Come sundown, the children's mothers began calling them in for whatever pitiful meal they had scraped together and they began to disperse, running into those firetrap tenements that lined the street. Soon, they were all gone, all except that one little boy. Gideon knelt down and asked, 'Hasn't your mother called you, son?' He just shook his head and said..."

To Derek's surprise, Hotch's voice caught as he stifled a strong emotion. "He said, 'Mommy doesn't talk anymore.' We looked at each other—none of those kids looked very well-fed, but this one—he looked as if a strong breeze could knock him over. Gideon said, 'I'd like to meet your mommy. Can you take me to her?' The boy nodded and we followed him to one of those decrepit flats. I'll never forget the stench. He opened a door and we walked inside and found her lying on the floor. She'd been murdered, stabbed. Dried blood was everywhere; we figured she'd been dead for at least a couple of days.

"The police came and there was all sorts of hubbub, but no one knew anything about her, and no one had a clue as to where the boy's father was—it seemed he'd never made an appearance the whole time they'd lived there. No one knew if she had relatives, or even friends in the city. The police were going to take the boy to an orphanage, but Gideon asked him, 'Would you like to come with us?' And he said, 'Yes.' So, we just put him in the caravan and left.

"Gideon tried for a long time to find the family. He wrote letter after letter. But, nothing ever came of it."

Hotch's uncharacteristic stream of words stopped and he looked distant. Derek shook his head slightly. "Poor little guy."

"Yes, but it could have been so much worse. He's had a good life with us. We all helped educate him. He's brilliant, you know, he picks up languages at the drop of a hat. Of course, he's a pain in the ass at times, but..." Hotch had a grin on his face now, and he shrugged indulgently. "But, we all love him."

Derek frowned. "And, he has no memory of anything that came before? Is Reid even his real name?"

"We believe so. The landlord told Gideon that much. And, as for Spencer's memories... Well, to hear him tell it, he's a prince." Hotch shook his head indulgently.

"A prince?"

"Oh, yes. Once, when he was about seven or eight, he informed us that his father was the ruler of a small island kingdom off the coast of Scotland and that he died in an uprising. His mother managed to smuggle him away unharmed by posing as a fisherman's wife. He claims she stole a small boat and rowed them to the mainland. From there, they eventually made it to New York."

Hotch's smile faded and he went back to his usual distant stare.

"Do you believe him?" Derek asked.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, of course not. Emily used to read fairy tales to him and Penelope would make up all sorts of fantastical stories for him—he could have just as easily told us he was a visitor from the moon, or a cat in human form."

"Yeah. But, he remembers stuff like no one else—what if it's true?"

Hotch gave him a dubious look. "Well, what would it matter if it was? Do you think he'd go off and reclaim his kingdom?"

Derek met Hotch's eyes, then returned his gaze to the little group at the camp fire. Spencer... Such fine features, the refined way he moved, his grace and passion...

It wasn't difficult to imagine him a prince.

He was mulling over that thought when the dancers finally flopped down on the ground in laughing exhaustion, Penelope announced that she was off to make rabbit stew. JJ and Emily offered to help, leaving Spencer to build up the fire. He knew just how much wood to add so that it would burn down to the right amount of embers for cooking by the time the stew was in the pot.

When he was done, he sauntered up to Derek and put his arms around his neck, kissing him with warm lips, bringing with him the smell of woodsmoke in his hair. Derek was aware of Hotch's eyes on them, but he didn't care. After all, the man had seen them in bed together, as had just about everybody else in the camp, and by now, Derek was almost accustomed to the group's utter disregard for privacy. He kissed back hungrily.

Spencer pulled back and raised an arm, taking a sniff of himself. He wrinkled his nose. "I stink."

"I'm getting a little ripe, myself," Derek agreed. "What are we supposed to do about that, here at the Ritz?"

"Just a minute." Spencer zipped into his caravan and returned with two large, soft towels, a small leather case, and a blanket. "Come on. We're going swimming."

"Aw, man. It's going to be cold."

Spencer laughed. "I'll warm you up. Let's go." He began striding off into the woods, and Derek gave Hotch a hopeless look before taking off after him.

When he glanced back, Hotch was gone.

Spencer led them to a lovely stream and they began following its gentle curves until they came to a broad pool, perfect for swimming. Spencer laid out the blanket on the shore and placed the towels and case on it. He skinned out of his clothes and then opened the case, taking out a thick bar of brown soap. He waggled it at Derek, grinning. "Soap me up?" he asked playfully before turning and throwing himself into the water with a noisy splash.

Derek cursed as the drops landed on him—was he forever to be the target of Spencer's splashes?—but he stripped and went to wade in to join him, shouting as the chilly water hit warm skin. "Damn, boy! It's freezing!"

"Just jump in! It's fine!" Spencer paddled around and held up the soap. "Are you going to tend to me, or do I have to do it myself?"

Derek took a deep breath and sank fully into the cold. He swam over to Spencer and grabbed him. "Come'ere." He wrestled his lover, succeeded in dunking him once, and then took him sputtering into his arms. "Give me that soap." He took it from Spencer's hand and washed his hair. He then led him to a more shallow area and began rubbing the slick bar between his hands. He stuck it under his arm so as not to lose it, and then rubbed the lather onto Spencer's neck and behind his ears.

He took the soap and tapped Spencer's right arm. "Up." He thoroughly soaped the thatch of hair there, and then did the other. He ran the soap over Spencer's chest, lingering on his nipples, and then turned him around and did his back. He held him close with one well-muscled arm around Spencer's waist and slid the bar lower. He began getting at the crease between his thigh and groin. He felt the young man shiver in his arms and lean into him, his back pressed tightly against Derek's chest.

He made a soft groan as he felt Derek's soapy hand clasp his prick and clean it gently but thoroughly. He did the same with his balls and then travelled south between Spencer's cheeks. "Derek..." he gasped, feeling like a kitten being licked clean by its mother.

"Over here." Derek took his hand and brought him to where the most shallow water near the shoreline lapped over soft sand. They sat, and Derek picked up one of Spencer's feet and scrubbed the soap over the sole. Spencer yelped and tried to pull away, but Derek held him firmly by the ankle and applied the soap between Spencer's toes with his fingers. He laughed and reached for the other foot, applying the same treatment and getting the same ticklish reaction. He then pushed Spencer onto his back, holding him carefully so water wouldn't get in his ears, and he kissed him, the wet warmth of their mouths blending with the cold of the fresh stream water. By now, the sun was high in the sky, warming and drying Derek's back.

"Go look in the bag," Spencer gasped.

Derek raised an eyebrow, but obeyed. He was delighted to find the little pot of oil they used for lubrication nestled in a corner and he grabbed it gratefully.

"Well, you just thought of everything, didn't you, kid?"

"I did. My comfort above all else, of course." Spencer's mischievous grin had the usual effect on Derek's member and he eagerly lay down beside his lover and proceeded to make good use of the oil. Their coupling didn't last long—Spencer was on the verge of spending just from being so thoroughly bathed by Derek's sure, strong hands, and once he got going, Derek needed only a few deep thrusts to bring himself to completion.

Afterward, they lay there sated and panting for a while, and then Spencer took the soap away from Derek.

"Your turn," he said, the mischief in his eyes now bordering on pure deviltry.

Derek had a feeling the luxurious baths at the Ritz would never compare with this.

And, oh goddamn, he was so right.

The sharp staccato of a telephone ringing jerked Morgan from his brief nap on Reid's bed and effectively deflated his straining erection, which some part of his drowsy brain recognized as probably being for the best. He felt around for the source of the disturbance and found Reid's phone under a pile of papers. He flipped it open and grimaced when he saw the name on the caller display. The shower was still running, so he pressed "talk" and took a deep breath before answering.

"Hello, Spencer Reid's unavailable, this is Derek Morgan."

There was a moment of silence, then Hotch spoke. "Morgan? Where's Reid?"

Morgan squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's, uh, in the shower."

Another moment of dead silence. Then, "I see. So... I take it that things have progressed nicely between the two of you." Morgan could hear amusement in Hotch's voice.

"No, man, it's not like that... I just came up here to check on him, I had a dream, and—look, never mind, what's up with the case?"

Hotch barely stifled a chuckle. "We're meeting in the small conference room downstairs in ten. Think Reid'll be out of the shower by then? Or should I make it fifteen?"

Morgan sighed heavily.

"No, Hotch. We'll be right down."

It occurred to Morgan that he hadn't cleaned up himself, but he'd be damned if he was going to explain to Hotch that he needed five extra minutes for his own shower. He just hollered Hotch's message to Spencer through the bathroom door and then ran to his own room for a quick once-over with a washcloth, fresh clothes and a lot of deodorant, and called it good.