Author's Note: My apologies for not posting this yesterday, when I actually and it hot offa the presses . . . got a wee bit distracted with watching "X-Men: First Class" for like the sixth time this week, and well . . . long story short, I've been up all night reading "Cherrik" fan fiction on here.

But I'm all good, have had my fill of mutant slash, and am ready to bring you my penultimate chapter! Sorry, guys, I think the one after this will be the end; I said from the beginning that I never wanted to write a healing-fic; just some sedative angst, with a bit of Sperek thrown in. Think I'm about there . . . And anyway, I've got a Sherlock crossover to get out there . . . and something for my darling "Peter/Reid" friendship . . . *Sighs* No rest for the wicked, ja?

As always, I adore all of the people who've taken their time to let me know what they think of the story. It's helped restore my confidence in writing this, and I'm glad everyone's been so wonderful. I'm sorry that next week will be our last meeting, at least for a little while . . .

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 Nine:

Break Before Fall

FBI policy stated that talking down a suspect was always the best method, and the first one to be employed. Reid could cite the exact passage, word-for-word, and say who had come up with it, when, and why it was there.

But, as much as the BAU's resident genius loved facts and statistics, he couldn't think in any words right now. All that was running through his mind was how fast his adrenaline was pumping, how many seconds he had gone without oxygen so far, how hungry Mason's eyes looked, how furious Derek did . . .

All the while, his heart was thumping wildly, and he swore he could feel the blood rushing in his ears.

He opened his mouth – to speak, to breathe, to scream, he couldn't be sure which, but it did matter because –

– because suddenly there was a hiss, a thud, and the grip on his neck was gone.

Blinded for a second by shock, Reid flailed back and found himself landing with a heavy thud on the hard ground. The surprising pain of landing on some of his tender spots leftover from last night made his eyes water, and it was with blurred vision that he looked up to see what had happened.

Their positions of just a moment earlier had seemingly switched; now, as Reid became the observer, it was Morgan who had his hands wrapped around Mason's throat, a murderous look in his eyes.

"Don't you ever," the black agent snarled, slamming Mason into the wall with each word, "ever, ever lay your filthy, disgusting hands on him. Ever again."

Their convict couldn't respond, because his face was turning purple, and even though some part of Reid was relieved that the man was no longer touching him, he was already scrambling to his feet, the agent in him needing to diffuse the situation before it got worse.

"Morgan," he called, desperate to get the man's attention, "Morgan, let go!"

He was ignored by both men, and hearing the gasping, sucking noises that Mason was making spurred Reid on further. He stepped up to the older agent, and placed a hand on his arm, firmly gripping and trying to bring the attention back to him.

"Morgan," he hissed, more urgently now, shaking the skin underneath his fingers. "Morgan I'm fine, I'm okay. You have to let go, now."

When he still found he was being paid no mind, Reid started tugging, his voice cracking with desperation. "Morgan, M-Morgan please don't. Stop. Y-You're killing him – !"

Reid found the rest of his words were cut off when one of Morgan's arms shot out unthinkingly and pushed him away, and he slammed harshly into the wall, teeth biting down on his tongue.

Trying to ignore the rush of blood he tasted in his mouth, Reid looked up again at the two men before him, feeling once more that nervous quell of fright that he had tried so hard to suppress ever since coming in here.

And, even now, it wasn't just for their unsub, with his malicious comments and desire to hurt everyone around him.

No, Reid also found himself shaking at the sheer rage in Morgan's face, at the tense and unforgiving stance of his arms, the muscles quivering as he was slowly choking the life out of the man in his steely grip.

Reid shuddered, unable to help shifting back into the wall further; he knew what it was like to have that anger directed at him, knew what it was like to be afraid of the normally smiling, gentle man. And while he felt no sympathy for Mason, he did have empathy; the kind that manifested itself into sheer terror and paralyzed him, forcing him to watch the destruction going on before him while being unable to do anything about it.

Seconds passed like eternities, and Reid could see the life slipping away from their suspect, could see the fight leaving his body –

– and then, somewhere to his right, the door slammed open, and then there were voices, sounds. People, flooding the room like a tidal wave, forever changing what might have been.

Hands were on his shoulders, tugging him up, and Reid flinched from the touch at first, but when the grip didn't let up, limply went along with the motions and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

He blinked, and turned slowly, to be met with the concerned eyes of one Emily Prentiss.

"Reid? Reid, are you okay?"

The words seemed to bounce around in his head for a minute before making any sense, and, after a too-long heartbeat, Reid nodded. Then, uncharacteristically, he turned away from her, and faced the rest of the chaos going on inside of the room.

Rossi and Hotch each had a firm grip on one of Morgan's arms, and were yanking him away from their unsub – whom JJ and two other officers were restraining, pulling out a pair of handcuffs as they checked his pulse. Garcia stood in the doorway with Anderson, both looking rather in a state of shock.

But even with all of this going on around him, demanding his attention, Reid only focused on the person he cared about most, the one spitting and struggling and doing his best to get free, to keep attacking.

To protect what was his.

" – son of a bitch, you better hope they don't sign you up for another interview – !"

"Agent Morgan, calm down." Hotch's teeth were bared in a rare display of dominant fury, and even from across the room, Reid could see his grip tightening as he yanked Morgan out of the room.

Before he fully disappeared, Mason's called after him, "The next time, it'll just be me and the pretty boy, how about that, Agent?"

Seeing that the one he was taunting was no longer in the room, Mason's dark eyes alighted upon him, victorious and vicious and full of that dark, empty hunger that shook Reid to his very core.

"Hello, poppet."

Feeling nauseous, Reid scrambled behind Prentiss, and, following the rest of the team, swiftly exited the room.

It didn't take long to find out where Hotch had dragged Morgan; Reid simply followed the shouting, and stumbled into a different interrogation anteroom – one that, he noticed, didn't have a huge window with a view of Mason Randall.

That was probably for the best.

At least, Hotch must have thought so, since it gave him a completely undistracted Derek Morgan to tear to shreds.

" – the Hell were you thinking, Morgan?!"
"He was threatening Reid, Hotch! He fucking had his hands on him, and – !"

"And what? You knew we were watching, you knew we would be in there in a second –"

"And because I somehow didn't feel comfortable letting my – " he paused, floundering, " — letting Reid get hurt, I need to be suspended?"

Hotch took a deep breath, attempting to calm himself. "No, Morgan. I'm considering suspending you because you've messed with our investigation. There's no way Mason is going to tell us where the dump site is now, not any of us except perhaps Reid – "

Morgan growled – actually growled, his entire body tense as though poised for attack. "You are not sending Reid in there again, Hotch."

"If the investigation calls for it – "

"I will personally beat the confession out of that sicko and hand in my badge and gun before I let you make Reid a display piece." Morgan's voice was low, deadly.

"He's a grown man, Morgan. And he wouldn't be alone – "

"He. Is not. Doing it."

Morgan took another step towards his boss, fists still clenched tight by his sides, and Reid felt a flash or irrational fear that the scene from the other room was about to repeat itself, and he rushed forward, all instincts suppressed by the shock that was still fading from the nasty turn that their interrogation had taken.

"I won't have to." When he spoke, his voice sounded a lot calmer than he actually was.

Both heads snapped towards him, and fighting back that oh-so-familiar wave of self-consciousness, Reid spoke slowly, willing himself not to stutter.

"We don't need to interview Mason again; M-Morgan's right, Hotch, send him away from here. Get him ready for trial."

"Reid," Hotch started in that patronizing tone that his subordinate so hated, "I'm not suggesting that we send you in there by yourself, of course not. But the plan from before was a valid idea, and as long as you're in there, we might be able to get Randall to reveal the locations – "

Reid cut his boss off by shaking his head. "No, Hotch. You're not listening to me. We don't need to keep Mason here, because he already told us what we wanted to know."

Both of the men before the young genius jerked, utterly disconcerted, and it was Morgan who spoke this time, raising an eyebrow as he did.

"Whaddaya mean, kid? He hasn't said – "

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable jerk his stomach gave at having Morgan speak to him for the first time since they exchanged words this morning, Reid spoke again, this time shifting his posture so he was standing more surely, his hands clenched slightly at his sides to control their nervous trembling.

"No, you're right, Derek, he didn't out-and-out tell us what we wanted to know. Not even close to it being that easy, right?" Reid gulped. "What he said was that I was pretty, and that it was making his morning. What he said was that he would know how to treat me with his own definition of love. What he said was . . . was t-that he wanted to take me to his cabin, and – and . . . "

Reid trailed off, whether not sure or just not desirous to continue, it was impossible to tell. Maybe – probably – both.

Either way, he stayed quiet as Hotch and Morgan paused, taking this new information in. They looked first at each other, and then at Reid, who was keenly observing the floor, left hand clamped tightly over the crook of his right arm.

A sight that broke Morgan's heart just a little bit, because he knew when his Pretty Boy was stressed, suffering.

Hotch noticed this too, but, unlike the SSA next to him, it was neither his place nor in his best interest to speak about it. Swallowing tightly and trying to bury the pain of it all once more, Hotch forced himself to turn to the team waiting by the doorway.

"Garcia," he decided, his voice the firm, no-nonsense Unit Chief tone they had all come to know and fear by now, "look into everything connected property-wise with Randall; not stuff he owns, we've already run through that. Look for anything under a family member's name or control. Something secluded but workable, something he wouldn't have had trouble getting access to." Penelope nodded once and turned swiftly, the clacking of her heels following her all the way down the hallway.

Next, Hotch turned to Rossi. "Dave, please go accompany Randall back to his cell, see if he lets something slip we can use against him in court – although assault of a federal agent might be manageable, if we can get him to keep quiet about Morgan."

"He started the damn thing – " Morgan's protest was silenced by one of Hotch's swift, deadly looks.

"JJ, there's a pile of files on your desk to sort through for our next case – you have my full permission to take a lunch break and then get to them. Prentiss, I want you to go over Randall's profile with me one more time, and help compile a list of the people we're looking for. We'll start notifying family members as quickly as possible, and get a SWAT team suited up to storm any locations Garcia finds."

"You two," he finished, turning at last to face Morgan and Reid, "are being sent home to cool off and recover. Call if you need anything – " at this, he glanced significantly at Reid, something Morgan couldn't help but note with a trace of bitterness, "– but I don't want to see either of you again until Monday, understand?"

Reid nodded once, still not making eye-contact with either of them, and fled from the room.

Morgan looked as if he wanted to chase after his (still?) boyfriend, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. When he turned around, Hotch's face, though half-hidden in the dark, looked dead-serious and dripping with authority.

"No more of my agents are showing up to work with bruises, Morgan," he said slowly and quietly, everything about his tone telling the subordinate agent just exactly what would happen if today were to repeat itself ever again.

Making sure to meet his eye precisely, Morgan nodded, ignoring the lump that had formed in the back of his throat.

A moment of staring passed between the two, an entire conversation in which a word was never spoken aloud, and then . . . Hotch nodded, too, seeming satisfied with whatever he had seen in Morgan's expression.

"Good luck," he murmured, releasing his hold on the younger man, both physically and mentally giving him permission to do what he was clearly so aching to.

Blinking a thanks, Morgan took off through the doors, down the hallway and out the BAU, towards the parking garage, with every intention of grabbing his Pretty Boy and whisking the two of them off to somewhere where they could talk.

Where he could talk. Where he could apologize.

Something in Morgan's gut was twisting as he entered the cool air of the cement structure where everyone from the FBI parked, and he started walking to the reserved parking spots for the BAU.

He thought it might be nerves, the thought of having to face everything he'd done last night making him cramp up. Or, possibly, it was guilt – because no matter how Morgan justified it, he knew easily that he'd screwed up big-time, and there really was no excuse.

Maybe, on some level, there was some anticipation, even excitement – he already missed his lithe lover, and even with all of the crap they had to wade through coming up, he wanted them to see each other, to speak to one another, forgive, forget . . . move on?

He shook his head. It wasn't going to be easy – hell, it might not even be possible so quickly. But he had to have faith.

He loved Spencer Reid. And no one – not even that damn fool of a genius – was going to stop that.

But as Morgan rounded the last corner to face his team's designated parking spots, he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach just a little bit, and finally realized what the aching in his stomach had been about.

Dread. Fear, plain and simple. Agony at it's finest.

Because while he had been up there defending himself to Hotch, Reid had been walking down here, alone and still very much in pain from the past day . . . and, even in his injured and distressed state, had apparently decided it a better idea to attempt to navigate the streets of Quantico by himself rather than ask for help.

His car wasn't there.

Spencer was gone.

Author's Endnote: *Big announcer's voice* NEXT WEEK, THE EXCITING CONCLUSION!

. . . Pssht. Sure. I'll see you as soon as my workweek is over, pinky-swears.

( . . . Oh, and for anyone wondering; yep, the 'poppet' line was totally taken from Pirates of the Caribbean; every time Smurch says that line to Kiera Knightly, I get all shivery. Deliciously creepy, I just had to use it!)

Tata!