The rest of that day was something of a blur. Hotch gave him the day off to recover from the news. Derek didn't even thank him, simply turning and walking out of the room, down the stairs and to the car, ignoring Spencer's worried, questioning look as he walked down to the elevator. He couldn't face Reid right now; he was sure that if he saw Spencer's face at that moment he would burst into tears, and that was the last thing he wanted.

He could practically hear the whispers following him out the door.

He remembered the whispers. In high school they followed him everywhere, boys whispering about what he'd done to become Buford's star player despite being the youngest boy on the team. The rumors were cruel, but Derek would have preferred any of them to the reality.

The rumors of Buford's escape were far more solid, but they did little to curb the sick feeling in Derek's gut. Buford had talked a prison guard into giving him the key to his cell, the man who ruined Derek's life had strolled out the door while the young prison guard he'd charmed into helping him looked the other way. He'd stolen a car and driven away from Chicago; the last recorded sighting of the man had him going towards Springfield. The PD was putting guards on his mom and sisters, wanting to make sure Carl didn't try to attack Derek's family. At least there was that.

Derek curled into a ball on his couch, trying to ignore the curling panic in his gut. He couldn't do this. This was the one thing he could not do. Knowing Carl was out there, the world suddenly felt like a much scarier, less secure place. And to think that just this morning he had been so happy…

Derek closed his eyes and fell headlong into a dream…

"Mr. Buford, can I ask you something?"

Carl's dark face lifted and cracked, splintering into pieces under the weight of a false smile, "Of course, Derek. Come on in and close the door."

16-year-old Derek Morgan teetered on the edge of the doorway. Fear and dread curled up in his gut, replacing the warm, solid satisfaction of a game well played. The worn football uniform hung loose around his shoulder, the cold air of Carl's office whistling through an old rip around his knee, only proving what Lee Garret had told him earlier; 'Come on, Derek, you know old man Buford will give us new uniforms if you ask him. You could be, like, our advocate or something. I don't know how you do it, but you've got Carl right in the palm of your hand.'

If only Lee knew.

Derek finally obeyed, frightened by the raise of one of Carl's eyebrows. The door slid shut with a sound that echoed in Derek's ears. Derek took the seat in the old wicker chair Buford set on the other side of his desk. The air smelled like Carl, a smell Derek knew far too well; sweat and the classy but cheap brand of cologne a philanthropist should wear. There was another smell underneath it, a cloying musk that Derek refused to name, even in the privacy of his own mind. He felt nauseous.

"You wanted to ask me something?" Carl prompted his brown eyes warm and concerned.

"Y-yeah," Derek swallowed, "I-I was wondering… I m-mean we we-were wondering…. If you could maybe…"

"Spit it out, son." The cracks around Carl's eyes split deeper as his smile widened. His eyes were so concerned, but Derek knew him too well to be fooled. The musk of arousal was getting stronger. Derek could feel tears prickling at his eyes. "My goodness, boy, you look like you're about to fall over. Don't be so scared, now. Just tell me what you want."

"W-we – new football uniforms. The team and I were hoping we could get new football uniforms."

Carl leaned backwards, scooting his chair around to Derek's side of the table. A heavy hand came down on Derek's knee, stroking in a way that was just too familiar to be fatherly. Derek wanted his father so badly right now.

"I could probably arrange that," The hand started moving up Derek's leg. Slowly, almost like it wasn't happening at all. The smell got thicker. "But new uniforms aren't cheap, Derek. You can't get anything for free you know."

Derek knew.

"The boys really want it," Derek said. Carl's hand was nearing the top of his thigh and it was starting to feel good. Derek didn't want it to feel good. He wanted to run away. But he couldn't do that. His family was relying on him to get out of here. To go to college and make something of himself. To make money. Because you couldn't get anything for free. Nothing at all.

There was a small statue on Buford's desk. A tiny gold football player. Derek focused on it as Carl squeezed the very top of his thigh and kept moving, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

"Are you willing to pay the price, Derek?"

Derek nodded, hating himself for it.

"Yes."

"NO!"

Derek shot awake, panting. Carl was going to…. Someone had to do something, Carl was planning on… Derek sobbed, willing his breathing to slow down. There was a tightness in his pants that made Derek want to throw up, the scent of sweat and arousal tainting the air.

It wasn't until the pounding in his ears lessened that Derek could hear the frantic knocking on the door. Derek got off of his couch, taking deep breaths as he neared the doorway.

"Derek? Derek, are you okay?" Spencer's voice, though panicked, acted like a sedative, calming Derek's nerves like nothing else could. It was one of the reasons Derek couldn't live without him. Derek threw the door open and pulled Spencer into his arms. Spencer didn't fight the sudden crushing arms around him, relaxing into Derek's embrace. "I came to check on you, I saw how upset you were at work today. What happened?"

"Nothing," Derek whispered, clinging to Spencer for dear life. "Nothing at all."