Author's Note: Dun-nah-nah-nah: FILLER TIME. Can't touch this.

Well, isn't that lovely-special? I actually managed to get this blasted thing in on time this week. Even if there's nothing but sub-plot buildup here. I'm prepping for a fairly bigger chapter that I hope to have all completed by Friday, once the last of my written exams is over . . . oh, and at long last, there is SNOW ON THE GROUND. Thank ye gods.

Anyhoo . . . I'm real sorry I haven't been getting around to answering reviews like I like to; as much as I adore this frakking site, RL is more important at the moment, and I've let the ball drop. But Annber03, silverwrym, pochetta, omgnotagain, AccalyaWolfriend, Caithlinn13, Sue1313, noobz40, Jack Karl, moreidprofile, Fireflies Flash, andvarious unaccredited Guest(s), I truly do very much appreciate all of the wonderful comments and critiques I've been getting on this venture. This is a totally new experience for me, and one I'm a little nervous about; so thank you ever so much for taking the time to reassure me that I'm not totally wasting my time on this. I appreciate it more than I can justifiably express. *Smiles*

Warnings: This fic contains no relevant spoilers that I can see. However, there is going to be some mild violence, much language, and angst as far as the eye can see. And, for that matter, prepare yourselves for a little OOC-ness. I guess.

Disclaimer: The amount of stuff I own grows ever larger and more terrifying. But anything resembling Criminal Minds as a whole has yet to be found. Stupid CBS with their 'rights' and 'contracts.' Grr.

I love reading reviews, but I know people hate writing them. The decision, my lovelies, is yours.

Do enjoy!

Chapter Three:

This Time

Reid had to keep a tight grip on the edge of the sink to keep himself from falling to the floor again as wave after wave of merciless memories hit him.

Everything, everything felt so wrong, hurt so much – and yet, he knew it was right. He prayed that he had remembered incorrectly, all the while knowing that that was impossible.

And as Spencer Reid finally met his own haunted eyes in the mirror, it took all of his willpower not to do something like cry right there.

Because it hurt – knowing that Derek had been in that kind of emotional pain, and that he'd had no idea all along. Because it hurt, remembering how he had come to just long enough to hear Morgan rummaging in the fridge for more alcohol, and that he had grabbed his keys and stumbled out the door, afraid of everything that had been, all that was and might or might not be if he so remained there. Because it hurt realizing that he still was afraid. Because all of the marks on his body hurt – not just physically, but emotionally.

Heart and skin alike smarted whenever he glanced at one.

Oh, God.

It was in some kind of emotional stupor that Spencer Reid went through the rest of the morning. Mechanically he got dressed, quickly ironing the clothes he'd been sleeping in before slipping them on again, grimacing at the feel of uncleanliness. He made a pot of coffee and managed to jam a breakfast bar into his mouth before double-knotting the laces on his loafers, grabbing his keys and wallet, and heading off to the BAU.

It was with more than an hour to spare that Reid tromped into the bullpen, paying no mind to the few other living bodies around him as he rushed to his desk and sat down in a hurry, opening up a few of the files scattered around and trying to look busy enough that no one would bother him.

No such luck. No sooner had Reid begun flipping through a ballistics report than he heard the firm, smart sound of footsteps that could only belong to one person.

Still, he jumped when the hand of Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner clamped down on his shoulder. Blushing furiously it took the genius a few moments to get control of his breathing again, and he spoke without looking up.

"Good morning, sir." It's not.

"You're here early, Reid."

He was.

Reid tensed slightly. What do you know?

What did he want to know?

Realizing his Unit Chief was looking at him, one eyebrow quirked in perplexity, Reid bumbled out, "I just . . . thought I'd get some paperwork done."

A pause, and then Aaron nodded. "Alright. Make sure to save some energy for later, though. I'm sending you and Morgan in to interview Mason again today. We're still not getting anything back from the DA about cutting a deal, and I think with the two of you in there, we might have one last shot at getting some locations."

Reid nodded, slowly. "Sounds like a good idea." Please go away.

Hotch waited another moment, watching the man below him, before gently removing his hand and lowering his voice.

"You're looking a little ill, Reid – did you get enough sleep last night? I knew we went home pretty late, and when you're here before I am . . ."

Aarong Hotchner was one of the top profilers of his age. As was Spencer Reid.

And both of them knew what the man was asking by not asking.

So obvious . . .The words drifted over both men's minds.

Resisting the urge to actually scream, or cry, or both right then and there, Reid took a moment to chew his inner cheek before he responded.

"I'm f-fine, Hotch. Just need some more coffee, I guess." He let out a dry laugh that both men noticed held no humor.

But Hotch, as professional as ever, gave a miniscule smile and ignored the feeling of unease hanging around his subordinate.

"You're sure." Not a question.

"Positive." Reid's tone was clipped.

Hotch nodded. "Well, . . . I'll be in my office if you . . . need anything." Change your mind went unsaid.

Barely hearing him, Reid shook his head, and didn't look up until he could no longer hear the footfalls of his most senior team member. Glancing around, Reid was relieved to see that the office was still relatively empty, and he darted up and made as if he was heading towards the break room, continually reminding himself to walk, not run. At the last minute, he veered sharply to the left, and ducked into one of the many employee bathrooms, where he pulled out a small package of foundation he'd nabbed from Garcia's office, and set about the difficult task of making his black eye look less like a black eye.

From up in his office, Aaron Hotchner stood with arms crossed, watching his much-younger coworker slip away before turning to face the rest of the BAU.

Aaron had been a profiler for over twenty years, and he was damn good at his job. Something he wouldn't so callously be able to claim if he wasn't able to spot that something was quite badly wrong with their team's resident genius this morning.

Here early, same clothes as yesterday, hair uncombed . . . If it hadn't been for the moodiness, Hotch would almost have had to assumed that Reid had spent the previous evening getting lucky.

Not that he wasn't entirely sure that that hadn't happened also – but usually, after spending the night together, both Reid and Morgan came into work in consistently better moods, as well as later, with coffee, and noogie-ing or some other playful manner of touching one another . . . at the very least.

He smiled faintly, as he thought about the two of them.

As their Unit Chief, Aaron couldn't strictly approve of a relationship between coworkers and employees. As their friend, however, he thought that the two men suited one another beautifully, and he wasn't going to begrudge them something that so obviously made the two of them better workers, closer friends, and, more than anything else, just happier.

So he had done, and continued to do, nothing whatsoever to stop their several-year courtship. And he never spoke of his suspicions – well, at this point, confirmation. Not even Reid and Morgan were aware that he knew, and at times like this, Hotch was grateful for that; something was clearly bothering Reid, and there was just a chance that he, as a more experienced profiler and third party, might be able to get the reserved genius to let something slip.

If Hotch had to put money on it, he would say that the dispirited and heavy way Reid was walking this morning had everything to do with his lover.

And if he had anything to say about it, he would make sure that the spring was back in Reid's step as soon as possible.

So, waiting with just as much angst for the exact same person Reid was, Hotch hummed something soft to himself and turned around, heading back to his office to think.

At his home, Derek Morgan was only just beginning to wake up.

It wouldn't have been this early, especially not with the half-drunk bottle of Bacardi resting by his bedside table that indicated exactly what he had been up to last night, but the profiler didn't really have a choice in the matter; the way he was laying, the sun hit him directly in the eyes, and after six-thirty, there really was no more getting back to sleep.

Instead, he had lain in the bed, eyes half-closed, and allowed himself to lazily drift in what his boyfriend so affectionately called the 'Twilight Zone,' where he said that Morgan was conscious and comprehending, but that he also sounded like wounded bear if one tried to get him to engage.

He smiled at that thought. Reid could always make him smile, even when the flustering genius was trying to be serious and steadfast – he was simply too adorable not to smile at constantly.

On that thought, Morgan had to wonder where his longtime lover was; even in his semi-conscious state, he could detect that there was no other radiator-warm body next to his. And he couldn't hear the shower going or smell any coffee being made.

So where was Reid?

He shrugged, unable to make himself too concerned; among his many amazing qualities was Spencer's steadfast dedication to his job, and it wouldn't surprise Morgan one bit if that wonderful, ridiculous little genius was already dressed and impatiently waiting in the car to go to work.

Guess I'd better get dressed, then, he thought amusedly.

Standing up and stretching, the muscular agent gave a light groan as his bones cracked, the muscles pulling taut against his sleeping shirt.

Well, not his sleeping shirt. Morgan glanced down.

Weird. He'd slept in his clothes.

Shrugging it off, Morgan stumbled blearily down the hallway, and into the bathroom.

As he turned on the shower, the man yawned and rubbed his eyes, vaguely taking in the room around him. He slammed almost completely awake when he saw the half-empty bottle laying in his new sink.

Stepping forward, Morgan picked up the fingerprint-stained glass, and took in a whiff. Coughing instantly, he nearly dropped the bottle as he turned around.

Bacardi. What the hell was one of his best liquors doing dripping all over the bathroom floor?

Reid. Again shaking his head, it was harder for Morgan to feel so amused this time. He loved the man, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind about that. But, for all of his superior intellect, Spencer didn't know a damn thing about good liquor, and more than once on the few occasions he'd tried something from Morgan's cabinet, the smooth flavor and rich tones were wasted as the skinny man would double over coughing and ask for a glass of wine, instead.

But even that image made Morgan smile fondly, and the expression – and good mood that came with it – held on his face for the rest of his morning rituals. Once he declared himself sufficiently washed, shaved, dressed, and coffee'd, Morgan grabbed his keys and cut through the hallway, eager – or was it desperate? – to make it to work in time.

But as soon as the profiler entered the living room, he stopped dead in his tracks, shock taking over and briefly halting his charge.

What the Hell happened here?

It looked like a tornado was what had happened. Normally a mess, it might be difficult for some people to discern what it was about his upturned living room that had Morgan's hackles on edge. But his eyes skipped past the usual chaos, and instead went straight to the television that was knocked on the floor, the overturned lamps – and Goddamnit, was that a dent in his wall?

Shaking his head at it all – what kind of party had he and Reid been having last night, anyway? – it took Morgan a moment to begin gauging the damage, logging away each little thing in need of repair in the back of his part-time carpenter's mind.

Wall, floor, speaker system – wait, what the – ?

Bending down, Morgan scrabbled blindly for just a second until his hand closed upon the thing that had caught his attention, something brown and leather and buttery-smooth, something laying just underneath the couch. Something that looked a lot like something Reid would own.

Why would he leave his satchel here?

The younger man could be very distracted and ridiculous sometimes, but he was never forgetful; he literally wasn't capable of it. And besides, Morgan had bought him the hideous thing (years and years ago, before he knew how much Reid would latch on to it – and him, as well) and it always warmed his heart and made the both of them smile whenever he saw Spencer carrying it.

Morgan pulled the straps apart, and quickly glanced inside; well, Reid had taken his wallet and keys. And his phone, too, it looked like. He'd just left behind all of his casework, his badge and ID, and what looked like a handful of Snickers Bars at the bottom of the pack.

Morgan shook his head at that, and tucked the bag under his arm; he'd just give it to Reid outside, after making a bit of fun of him and swiping one of those candies, of course.

He straightened out the TV and picked up the lamps, and pushed the couch back to its original spot. Looking around, satisfied enough, Morgan grabbed his own keys and finally headed out to the car.

Still seeing no sign of his sweet little genius, Morgan bit back a wave of disappointment and reluctantly slid Reid's bag onto the seat next to his and jammed the keys in the engine. It wasn't all the time that Spencer got impatient waiting for Derek to get up and get ready for work, but it did happen.

He guessed he'd see him at work, then.