Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“If an addict who has been completely cured starts smoking again he no longer experiences the discomfort of his first addiction. There exists, therefore, outside alkaloids and habit, a sense for opium, an intangible habit which lives on, despite the recasting of the organism. The dead drug leaves a ghost behind. At certain hours it haunts the house.” - Jean Cocteau

Nobody spoke on the jet as it flew back to Virginia from Bottineua County, North Dakota.

The most emotionally obdurate agent wouldn’t have fared better, considering the scene they were essentially fleeing. Even Hotch, usually the most stoic of them, was paused pen-in-hand over paperwork, eyes staring unfocused into the middle-distance. Rossi was staring out of the window into the dark with a face that warned everyone he might not be able to manage his measured, often fatherly tones. Prentiss had a book open in hand, but her eyes didn’t move across the page. JJ kept silently catching tears as they crept out of her eyes with her thumb, avoiding everyone else’s gaze, lest they look at her and see. Morgan had his headphones on and his eyes closed.

Reid was unhampered by query or judgment as his eyes moved around his teammates, because none of them endeavoured to look his way. Even after the day they’d had his brain wouldn’t allow him to switch off. He was used to it, but after the events of the case he wanted nothing more than to disconnect some of the jumbles of wires his brain seemed to be made of.

He didn’t want to think, he wanted to float away from his own brain; a problem, because he knew exactly one thing he could do to achieve it.

He wanted to stay clean.

---

“Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.”

JJ’s terror was only just audible to Morgan and Prentiss who flanked her, but it emoted everyone’s pure unadulterated fear. They hadn’t been quick enough, and when reports of a gunshot at the school had reached them, they knew they were too late.

The small school was quiet, empty, until they reached the first grade classroom. The teacher lay dead by the door, shot at point-blank range with a shotgun to the stomach. The glass window of the classroom door had the blind pulled down over it, so none of the agents were prepared for the scene before going in with their weapons raised. One of the local cops who had stormed in with them retreated at the sight, and they could hear him vomiting in the hallway.

The children slouched in their seats, lying across the floor, flopped over desks – nine in all, were seemingly unmarked, but of course not sleeping, not unconscious. The team knew from the profile and the previous crimes each of them would have died instantly from having their neck broken.

There was a hole in the ceiling, and plaster debris scattered the classroom. Sitting casually on the teacher’s desk in front of the blackboard was the unsub, white teeth gleaming in a grin as he stroked the hair of the child he had gripped around the shoulders with the other arm, seemingly unfazed by the seven guns pointed at him.

“Let the child go, Michael,” Hotch said, voice calmer than seemed possible in the face of the scene they were confronted with. The boy whimpered, whatever means the unsub having used to placate them all long enough to kill them without fight wearing off.

“Let the kid go!” Morgan barked.

The unsub didn’t. With that grin still pulled across his face, he moved his hands into position to break the child’s neck. At the presence of a stranger’s hand gripping his chin the boy bit down hard, making the unsub yell and loosen his grip enough for the child to throw himself forward out of his grasp. The unsub’s grin twitched and he reached for the shotgun on the desk; shots rang out in the small classroom, so many that the unsub’s body was forced back over the desk against the blackboard, riddled with bullet holes and covered in blood.

---

“We couldn’t have stopped him,” Hotch had said. “We were called in too late to prevent the escalation.”

Everyone clung to that assurance as they silently left the jet. There were no goodbyes or assurances to see each other on the next case. Nobody was up for casual small talk as they made to go to their homes.

“Reid, do you need a ride home?” Morgan asked, pulling his keys out of his pocket as he neared his car in the parking lot. Reid paused and looked around, blinking several times before he nodded.

They were silent as Morgan drove towards Reid’s apartment building. Had they not had worse days? Sure, but this was... it was enough to fill the empty air with the weight of what they'd seen. They'd been friends long enough that neither felt the compulsion to fill it with idle talk on a night like this.

After they stopped, Reid unbuckled himself and smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner at his friend. Morgan did the same with a little nod.

“Night, Reid.”

“Goodnight Morgan,” Reid said softly, letting himself out of the car.

Reid let himself into his apartment and didn’t turn on any lights. The layout was automatically memorised, so he didn’t need the space illuminated as he pulled off each shoe with the opposite foot and discarded his bag and jacket.

He padded through to the bathroom, this time turning on the light and narrowed his eyes against the harsh brightness, sliding the mirror of the cabinet to reveal minimal supplies; there were some unopened bars of soap, a cologne Garcia had given him for a past birthday he’d only worn once, full bottles of shampoo and conditioner and an in-use tube of toothpaste.

It had been devoid of even over the counter medication since he’d fought and won against his Dilaudid addiction. He closed the cabinet again, knowing he’d only opened it out of habit like he always did, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

Today was not a win.

He had seen awful things in his time at the BAU, but never so many child victims all at once. The unsub was of course not the first psychopath he’d encountered either, but that grin he’d worn as he prepared to take his final life and was faced with a firing squad was burnt into Reid’s mind. It was an image he didn’t need or want, but his eidetic memory would never let him forget.

Except when...

Reid reached under the sink, feeling around the porcelain rim. There were two things fixed there with tape, and he retrieved them both; one small medical vial of Dilaudid, and a fresh vacuum packed syringe. The two had been there as long as he had been clean. He wasn’t sure why; he’d ridded his apartment and his life of all other medication he thought might act as a gateway to that addiction, but at the back of his mind had always known that one hit was available.

He often told himself it was to test him, to make sure he could resist temptation, but at moments like this he was sure it was because he knew he’d always end up here again.

---

Morgan didn’t watch Reid to his door, but leant his elbows on the steering wheel and ran his hands over his face and head, stretching out his tired skin. Hotch’s words were meant to reassure, to make them realise he was right; that they had done everything they could, and what they needed to save those children was what they weren’t given; more time.

That wasn’t good enough for Morgan. How long had it taken for the unsub to kill those children? Ten minutes? Twenty? Every minute counted as they’d rushed to the scene. Morgan had driven one car, and the route had been his decision, being the car in front. If there had been a quicker way that he missed, they might have saved more of those children.

But even worse than that, Morgan and Reid had talked to the unsub as a person of interest the previous day, and between their rushed profile and the unsub’s disarming manner, they’d walked away satisfied he was of no further merit. If Morgan had only realised, only seen what was now obvious, they might have walked away with more than one young life saved that day.

He started the car, and happened to glance around, so he noticed Reid’s mobile phone on the passenger seat. Morgan paused, fingers twisting the keys in the ignition. Any other day, he’d just keep hold of the phone and give it to Reid when he saw him next, or dropped it by in the morning. But right now, seeing a familiar face, one that had seen exactly what he had seemed like a comfort he didn’t want to pass up, even if I was only for a minute.

Nobody needed to buzz him through the main door, because like usual if it wasn’t locked it could be opened with a little pressure from a shoulder barge.

“Told him to get his super to fix this,” Morgan muttered as the door budged free, “someone's gonna get burgled.”

Three flights of stairs up, Morgan knocked on Reid's door, hoping the he hadn’t gone to bed yet. He waited, leaning on the door frame, arm raised above his head. After a pause he knocked again, hopefully not loud enough to wake him if he was asleep, but loud enough to be heard. He really wanted to see him.

“Morgan?” Reid said from within, followed by the sound of the lock and latch being unbolted. “Hi,” he said, looking confused at the sight of his friend and teammate at his door.

“Hey pretty boy,” Morgan greeted, mustering a smile. “You forgot your phone.”

He held it out to him, and the other tried to reach out and take it without opening the door any further. There was a clatter from behind the door and Reid suddenly scrambled downward, attempting to stop whatever it was.

“Hey, Reid, you okay?” Morgan said automatically, pushing the door open to help with whatever it was.

Reid snatched something up from the floor and brought his closed hand against his chest, head jerking up to look at Morgan wide-eyed and, what? Ashamed, maybe.

“Reid...?”

“You should g-go,” Reid stuttered, “it's late and we really need to get some sleep-”

“Reid, what is it?” Morgan’s concern was plain, that soft kindness infiltrating his voice. Morgan was his best friend, and usually the first one to know when there was something wrong with him, and the first one to try and make him talk things out.

Reid dropped his gaze, not sure whether he wanted Morgan to leave or to press the issue, to force a kind of admission out of him. He took a step back into the hall, and although he wasn’t sure if that read as an invitation, Morgan stepped over the threshold into his apartment, pushing the door too behind him.

“Reid.”

Slowly, deliberately, Reid let his closed hand come away from his chest. Morgan’s gaze followed it, darting up to Reid’s face, but the man wasn’t looking at him. Each finger of his hand curled away individually, slowly, revealing a medical vial. Morgan reached out his fingers for it, paused, saw that Reid didn’t retreat his hand, and then picked it up.

“Dilaudid,” he murmured, turning the vial over. “Isn’t this what Hankel... but... have you...is this...?” Things seemed to be falling into place, putting the pieces together without requiring an explanation. “Reid?”

“I’m clean,” Reid said, not meeting Morgan’s eyes. “I’m... this case... ” He took a long shuddering breathe inwards. “So much death. I need...”

Morgan’s fingers caught under Reid’s chin, tempting him to look upwards. Their friendship was the most tactile he had ever had, but this move was rare and intimate in a way Reid had turned over and over in his mind so many times. He expected searching, confused but kind eyes of his friend, openness and trust build over years of shared success and horror.

He did not expect Morgan to bend his head and kiss him full on the mouth.

Reid would be lying to himself if he pretended he hadn’t wanted to kiss Morgan for a number of years. This was his best friend, and he had always thought years of growing up largely friendless meant the thoughts and feelings he had towards Morgan were a natural part of such a friendship, one he hadn’t grown up to know how to handle. That he was overthinking it, misreading it, of course everyone wanted to kiss their friends, right?

Reid pulled away from the kiss, wide-eyed with surprise. Morgan inhaled shakily, nodding a little to himself to try and gain his bearings. He wanted so much to press his lips back there, to have Reid kiss back; to give his friend comfort, to be comforted. He'd never kissed a man before, but it didn't matter right now because this was Reid and they were both drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, slowly moving away. “I’ll-”

“Morgan,” Reid breathed, hand gripping a fistful of the front of the other’s shirt. “Morgan,” he repeated. “Please kiss me again.”

Morgan did, and Reid responded, both hands rising to Morgan’s neck, keeping him there, because if he moved away now Reid thought he might drop dead. Morgan mirrored with similar need, hands wrapping around him and splaying wide against his back as his tongue snaked out against Reid’s bottom lip. Reid let his lips part and his own tongue greeted Morgan’s, deepening the kiss as his hips pressed forward.

The vial Morgan had been hold clattered heavily to the floor without breaking, the glass tinkling along the wood floor as it rolled away somewhere.

Reid didn't care; Morgan deepened the kiss fiercely, pressing him to the wall of the entranceway, his knee moving between Reid’s, the force of the thing pushed him up the wall an inch or two, making him have to lean down a little his neck to continue to kiss Morgan. One hand cradled the back of his head, his other still holding his neck, Morgan's pulse dancing under his thumb, eyes closed and lost to the increasingly desperate kiss.

With one hand braced on the wall at Reid's side, Morgan's other moved upwards along his clothed ribcage, over his shoulder and up his neck to lace through his hair. The fingertips across his scalp made Reid gasp against Morgan's mouth, and he closed his lips and teeth around the other’s bottom lip, tugging at it. It sent a jolt of stimulation throughout Morgan's body, pooling heat in his groin, which was now straining hard against the front of his jeans. Reid pressed his hips and his own erection forward against the knee between his legs.

Morgan moved his hand from the fall grabbing a handful of Reid’s shirt and tugging it free of his belt. With a deft, practiced ease he unbuttoned several of the lower buttons, then put his hand flat against the warmth of Reid’s belly, seemingly unable to wait until the shirt was entirely open to feel his skin underhand.

Reid let out a shuddering breath against soft lips between a kiss, wanting that hand lower, and higher, and everywhere over him, firm and sure and alive. Morgan's hand found his tie and loosened it urgently, the rest of his shirt buttons followed.

Morgan’s lips finally left the other’s, tracing down to his beautiful jaw line, kissing along the shape of it as if he had been kissing men’s jaws all his life. Reid gasped and shrugged to help Morgan push his shirt from him; it was still tucked in at the back so hung awkwardly behind him, but neither paid it any mind.

In the orangey light of the entrance alcove Reid’s skin looked as warm as it felt as Morgan ran his hand down it, pulling back a little to look at him. Reid was alive, he was here, and this – this was better than drugs. This had to better, Morgan would make it better. Reid's eyes were heavy lidded with desire, his lips swollen from the intensity of their kisses.

“Pretty boy,” he murmured as he leant forward and placed a soft kiss on Reid’s shoulder, then his prominent clavicle.

The nickname made Reid's cock throb. He let his hands slip from Morgan’s neck, slowly down his front, sensing the definition of muscles below his thin t-shirt. His fingers skimmed along the hem of the dark material, letting the other’s motion move his head to the side, stretching out his neck and exposing the sensitive skin to Morgan’s soft lips.

He was still hesitating with the other’s shirt when he felt the subtle scrape of teeth against his neck as Morgan continued to kiss there, and he groaned, grabbing the material in hand and tugging it free of the man’s belt. He was sure he felt Morgan’s mouth curl into a smile against his skin as he pushed the material upwards, running his hands along his warm ribcage as he went. When he reached as far as he could unaided, Morgan quickly pulled back enough to rid himself of the shirt.

Reid couldn’t believe how hot Morgan’s skin was under his hands as he put both of them on the firm expanse of his chest. Strong hands curled around his waist, and Morgan leant into him again and captured his lips. The kisses were frenzied and their hands followed suit, running over the exposed flesh of each other, until Morgan found Reid’s belt. Reid pushed his hips forward into Morgan’s seeking hands.

Morgan needed no further encouragement, and unbuckled Reid’s belt, pulling it free from the belt loops with one quick tug. Next he unbuttoned the man’s slacks and reached for his zipper, pulling it down and pushing the fabric away from his hips, so he could press a thumb along one of Reid’s sharp hip bones; Reid bucked against him, gasping out into the kiss and gripping Morgan’s biceps, where his hands had been tracing the definition of muscle. Morgan repeated the action on the other hip and received a similar response, and kissed Reid harder.

Slender hands found his belt and unhooked it with less ease than Morgan had, but managed to get it unbuckled without breaking the kiss. He could feel the heat radiating from within as he unbuttoned and unzipped the front of Morgan’s jeans. All he wanted to do at that moment was slip his hand downwards and feel the bulge that had been pressing against him as they kissed, but even with Morgan pressed up against him, kissing him feverishly, he hesitated. What if it was too much and it broke them from their fervent stupor, what if-

“D’you want me to fuck you?” Morgan murmured against Reid’s lips. Reid put his head back against the wall, putting a little space between their faces.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asked, regretting that he chose to answer with an awkward question as soon as it left his mouth. Yes, yes.

Morgan didn’t reply, but watched Reid with intense dark eyes, one hand on the man’s hip, the other gripping his side, thumb resting below his pectoral. Morgan's gaze was almost so intense that Reid want to avert his yes. He didn't, and nodded.

“Need to hear you say it, kid,” Morgan said.

Of course, even in the frenzy of whatever was happening, of course.

“Yes,” Reid breathed, and after a beat, “I n—I want you to fuck me.”

“Bedroom.” Morgan said, voice thick with desire.

His body ached for the loss as they parted, but Reid caught him by the wrist and led him towards his bedroom. Lamp light, shoes and the rest of their clothes off, the thrum of rain on the window as they made it to the bed. A universe with a sense of narrative justice, to break a storm over them as they crashed together like swelling tides.

Below him Reid’s lips were parted, a small sliver of pink tongue poking out to trace over them. He was lithe and long-limbed, skin and lean muscle and protruding bone in places, stretched out for him, arms wrap under him, limber fingers digging into his shoulders.

Morgan lowered his mouth and kissed Reid, deepening it immediately and resuming the passion of the entrance alcove. A show of strength that made Reid's body throb again, when Morgan supported himself above him on one arm, the other reaching lower, across the jut of his hip, the crease of his thigh, until his knuckles grazed the skin of Reid's cock, lying hard and wanting against his belly.

Morgan had never touched a man like this; at least not—no, he wasn't going there not now. Only this mattered now, and Reid here, holding him above water. Slowly, perhaps obviously tentative if not for the distraction of kissing over Reid's chin and along his jaw again, Morgan wrapped his hand around Reid's cock, felt the weight of it, felt it twitch in his grasp as Reid moaned softly and lifted his hips.

Reid had never had hands on him like this before, no such measured, deliberate touching, no huge body crowding him, nothing that left no space for awkwardness and embarrassment. Logical, for there to be no space for it; he thought perhaps nobody knew him better than Morgan, and now he was becoming known in a deeply carnal sense.

Morgan's cock lay heavy along the crease of his thigh, and he reached down between while engaging Morgan's kisses, to feel where the soft foreskin had pulled away from the glans, to take him in his fist. Morgan let out a small groan and dropped his forehead against Reid's as he began to twist his fingers, studious hands learning his flesh.

Both their hands grazed along each other, and Reid arched his back and neck in search of contact. Morgan gave it, braced on his supporting elbow to close the gap, to let his hand push Reid's soft, messy hair away from his damp forehead and relishing the electricity of the kiss and the fire of Reid’s hand stroking him.

They languishes there in the still before the next wave, hands stroking, hips rocking, red marks blossoming along Reid's neck where Morgan could suck them into his skin.

“Condoms,” Morgan said huskily, between kisses. “my car-”

Reid didn’t draw back from the kiss straight away, reluctant to stop his tongue dancing against the other’s, not wanting to stop touching him, or being touched.

“I've got it,” he said. He leant across the bed while trying not to diminish the proximity of their bodies, fumbling open a bedside draw and feeling inside, finally drawing back with a tube of lubricant between thumb and forefinger, and a condom caught between his ring and pinkie. He twisted his wrist to check his findings.

“Nope,” he said breathlessly, dropping the lube next to them and deftly flicking the condom packet away into the room, returning to the draw for a second. “Large.”

If not for the desperation of the thing, the crashing of their bodies as the rain pounded he windows, Morgan might have let out more than the breath of a laugh, might have teased or quipped or eased the tension. But it thrummed too hard, possessed them both too keenly for levity.

“Turn over,” Morgan said, instead.

Reid turned onto his hands and knees, feeling exposed and nervous, and more aroused and alight than he’d ever felt. Morgan lined his cock up along Reid's backside, stroked up along his thigh. He hummed, low and long, tipping his chest down and his back up, into the warm contact.

Morgan turned the lube over in his hand, a moment not quite pause or hesitation. He wanted this, he wanted Reid so bad, but he'd never done this before. Reid needed something sure now, not his apprehension and inexperience.

Reid stifled a yelp of surprise when he felt one cool, slicked finger circle his hole. Morgan's other hand settled against the swell of his rear, grounding him. A slower pace, considering, as they fought the electric urgent current almost tangible in the air between them,

Reid moaned from his throat as Morgan’s thick digit pushed into him, and his muscles clamped at the welcomed intrusion. Morgan’s hand traced up Reid’s spine, the vertebrae pressing up against his skin, and curled his finger, exploring the tight heat that surrounded it.

“Ah!” Reid gasped, hips bumping into the contact, all the muscles of his thighs tensing.

Morgan spared the hand that had gone up Reid’s back, drawing it back down and over the man’s hip, to reach under him and feel for his cock. Reid was still hard, an obscene string of fluid from the tip stretching down towards the sheets.. Morgan gently made circles with his fingertip, and felt the man’s cock jump in hand, felt the muscles of his legs dance against his own, listened to the sound of Reid’s panting breathing and soft moans.

Two fingers soon after, into the tight slick heat. Reid whined and pressed back into Morgan's hand. He whined again when Morgan withdrew them, peering back over his shoulder.

“You want to do this?” Morgan asked, tearing the edge of the condom packet.

Reid nodded.

“Gonna need you to use your words.”

“Yes.”

“Have you done this before?”

Reid nodded again. He was lying, but he needed this.

Morgan gripped Reid's hip, his hand impossible broad across his body, pressure from his thumb making his back arch further. Morgan pushed forward, the head of his cock slipping past the guarding muscle, and Reid moaned throatily. It took all of Morgan’s restraint not to slam his hips forward and bury himself in that delicious tight heat.

Reid’s toes curled as he felt Morgan pushing in slowly, steadily stretching him, filling him. Pulling back, then pushing back deeper with each steady stroke. He was aware of the sounds falling from his mouth; high whines of need from the back of his throat, and deeper moans rumbling up from his chest, but he was far too gone to care what he sounded like.

Finally he felt the weight of Morgan's thighs against his, and almost lost his sense to the feeling of being completely filled. This was more than he’d ever imagined; deeper, wider, and a thousand times more intense.

“Morgan!”

“Hey, I got you,” Morgan hushed as he slid his pelvis back, dragging his cock back against the resistance of Reid’s squeezing muscles. He stopped has he felt the head of his cock catch against the rim of Reid's hole, and pushed forward again, quicker now, and repeated the action again. Reid began to respond immediately, rocking his own hips back and forth in rhythm with Morgan’s, meeting his thrusts.

The storm swelled between them again, buffeted by crashing waves as Morgan picked up speed, sawing his cock in and out of Reid with increasing fervour. Fuck, he felt incredible.

Morgan, cock still sheathed entirely in Reid, pulled him up against his chest, wrapping an arm across his chest to hold him there, to change the angle and bounce Reid on his cock with powerful thrusts of his hips. The hand that wasn’t splayed across his damp chest ran up the back of his neck and through his hair, grabbing a large fistful of it. He squeezed his hand, tugging at Reid’s hair and making his neck arch, gauging the man’s reaction as he began to thrust again.

“Yes,” Reid hissed through his teeth, so Morgan gripped his hair harder and pulled, making the man’s back arch. He dragged his hand down Reid's sweaty chest to grip at a bony hip to give him leverage as he continued to fuck him; fast, hard snaps of his hips against Reid.

There is was; floating. Reid reached back for what purchase he could get on Morgan's neck, dragging his mouth to the slender column of his neck, teeth and lips and tongue. Dilaudid was escape, peace; this was rapture. The hot, wet heat of their bodies, the fullness of Morgan's huge cock within him, at the mercy of gravity and Morgan's pure body strength moving him, moving his cock inside him, his own cock bouncing obscenely with each brutal, exquisite thrust.

Morgan's hand then, slid over his hip to wrap around his cock, squeezing and twisting and letting Reid fuck into the ring of his fist until he came, waves crashing against the lighthouse of Morgan's body. Morgan caught his mouth then, Reid gasping, spilling over Morgan's hand messily and onto the sheets below.

“There you go, Reid,” he cooed, and kissed those swollen, wet lips. “I got you.”

Reid lost his breath when they moved again, pressed to the bed as Morgan continued to fuck him, shuddering with overstimulating sensation as Morgan chased his own release. With several last hard thrusts Morgan came, grinding his body against him, holding the man’s hips to him desperately, head thrown back and teeth clenched to stifle what felt like a roar brewing in his chest. It came out as a deep groan as he came.

The rain continued to pound on the glass of the window, as Morgan's bracing arms gave out, pressed Reid's back, cock still throbbing inside of him. At Reid’s neck he could feel the other man’s hot breath ghosting over his damp skin. He wanted to close the inch between their hands and slip his fingers between Morgan’s, but he didn’t dare.

Eventually they parted, Morgan easing himself out gently and rolling beside Reid on the bed.

“You okay, Reid?”

“Yeah, I'm, I'm okay.”

“How many guys have you slept with?” Morgan asked softly. Reid shifted a little, folding his arms under his head, turning to face Morgan without quite making eye contact.

“One.”

“When was that?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“But I thought-” Morgan looked curiously at Reid, “you said you’d done this before.”

“Alone. Masturbation. Thirty-six percent of American adults engage in some kind of digital-anal masturbation regularly.”

“Right.” Morgan nodded, as he got up to find his boxers. It look him a moment to suppress the guilt he felt, knowing he'd been Reid's first male sexual partner, that it had been like this. Reid's first time should have been special, had he taken that from him?

“Reid, are you gay?”

“People’s masturbatory activity isn’t a reliable indicator of their sexuality,” Reid said, even though he knew even as the words formed that Morgan had sought a simple denial or confirmation.

“I know.”

“I’m not really sexually experienced enough to quantify what sort of sex I prefer.”

“A lotta people know without sex, right?” Morgan reasoned. “They just know.”

“Well, I’m not sure gender is a primary factor in who I'm attracted to.” A pause, weighted. “And you?”

“'And me' what?”

“Are you gay?”

Morgan laughed in what he must have meant to be a kind, good-natured way.

“No, dude, we just needed each other tonight. You're my friend.”

“Right, yeah.”

Reid assumed he did a good job of not letting his disappointment show. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen in this moment besides this; Morgan was right that they’d both had what the other needed tonight, their friendship providing a new kind of physical comfort under extreme duress Nothing more. Reid could be okay with that, yeah. Definitely.

“Do you need me to stay, Reid? I'll take the couch.”

Reid felt calm, sated. Any thought of Dilaudid were only menial now, making sure he remembered to find and put the bottle back in it's place. It was... selfish to want Morgan to stay.

“No, it's okay. Its been a long few days, you should go home and get some rest.”

On drive home, lights refracting through raindrops on the car window, Morgan wondered why he felt so guilty that he'd hoped Reid would ask him to stay.

“Sex is full of lies. The body tries to tell the truth. But, it's usually too battered with rules to be heard, and bound with pretences so it can hardly move. We cripple ourselves with lies. ” - Jim Morrison

Chapter Text

“It is not sex that gives the pleasure, but the lover.” – Marge Piercy

The whole team managing to go for drinks together was a rare feat, but it was much needed after the last week they’d had. It was three days since their case in North Dakota, and morale had been dampened ever since. Garcia had been the architect of this night, and had been so keen nobody had had the heart to decline her invitation.

Loud music, flashing lights, crowds – all a recipe for a sensory overload or meltdown for the unprepared. But still, an oasis within it; all Reid's favourite people in the world.

Hotch, sober, the tension draining from him as he watched his team relax and let go of the hold they’ve kept on the previous case, bumping shoulders with Rossi. Garcia was sipping her drink through a straw and sharing a conspiratorial laugh with JJ. Morgan and Prentiss flitting between the pool table and the dance floor.

It was Reid's turn to fetch drinks.

Luckily for Reid most people had wanted another beer, and he was able to carry those in one arm, pressing them to his chest, and three clutched in his hand, while the other held a glass of cola. A server he was not, but he managed not to spill anything as he weaved his way through the crowd. There was a ripple of appreciation as he returned to the table, handing out drinks and settling down with his own beer. He wasn’t a big drinker, and preferred wine if anything, but beer was communal and made sense on these occasions.

Morgan and Prentiss found their way back to the table, and if Reid had been paying attention he would have seen Morgan's eyes repeatedly on him. As it was, Reid had taken one glance as the pair came back to table and panicked, endeavouring to look anywhere but Morgan; his t-shirt was clinging to his chest, and the front of his jeans were almost obscenely tight. Since their night together Reid had found himself studying the man physically a lot more than he ever had previously, and coupling this with the feelings of desire that went along with his presence, it was making it even harder to act normally. More normal. Normal for him.

Things hadn’t been any different between them at work, but he wondered if Morgan's mind was working overtime like his was, replaying what had happened between them over and over. Morgan's fingers on his jaw, knee between his thighs, his cock inside him.

Probably not; Reid surely wasn’t any different to anyone else Morgan had slept with, except that they had an established friendship and work relationship. He wasn't unfamiliar with the cultural concept of friends with benefits, but they hadn't talked about it.

“I'm just gonna go to the bathroom,” Reid said, stepping awkwardly around people so he didn’t bump or brush past them and pointedly not looking at Morgan.

Morgan’s eyes slid sideways as they followed Reid’s form, wondering if it was normal that his flesh seemed to have a sense memory of him, not sure if he was feeling an echo or imagining the pressure of Reid’s shoulder blades pressing into his chest, his thighs straddling his own, the warm, wet heat of him.

“Me too,” Morgan said.

“I thought only girls went in packs,” Prentiss called after him, and Morgan could hear Garcia and JJ laughing as he moved away.

Reid squinted, trying to let his eyes adjust back to the dim light of the club compared to the harsh brightness in the bathroom. He had to be normal, he was out with profilers, someone was surely going to notice if he didn't even look at his best friend the whole night.

He turned sideways to stop himself brushing against someone who passed him in the small dark corridor he'd gone down to find the bathrooms, but the silhouette of the stranger didn’t do the same, making straight for him. There was a moment of panic as Reid felt hands at his waist and a body pushing him into a dark corner, and it took a second or so for him to register the body pressing into him and the lips seeking his own.

“What are you doing?” he whispered hurriedly, even as he braced his hands around Morgan’s torso. His skin was hot even through the cloth of his shirt, his touch electric.

“Kissing you.” Morgan chuckled, hand winding through Reid's hair.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Reid kissed him back.

“Someone’ll see us,” Reid said eventually, drawing his face away a little.

“It’s dark.” Morgan captured his lips again, pressing a knee between Reid's legs.

“They’ll miss us,” a kiss, “come find us.” Another kiss.

A soft sound of frustration left Morgan, because as much as he wanted to continue kissing Reid in this dark corner, he knew he was right; their friends would seek them out, or a random stranger would spot them and draw attention to them.

“Morgan,” Reid breathed against the man’s mouth, “will you come back with me tonight? To my apartment?”

“You want me?” Morgan murmured, kissing his jaw as he pressed his thigh deliciously into Reid’s crotch.

“Yes,” Reid said, willing in vain for blood not to start pooling where Morgan’s thigh was pressing.

“Like Monday?” Morgan put his lips against his jaw, his breath dancing there. Reid gave series of tiny nods, the corners of his mouth pulling back awkwardly as he tried to convince his body not to start down the path of arousal. “We’ll split a cab. Go back to yours.”

Reid nodded again, and Morgan put one more kiss against his mouth before he drew away and headed for the main room, easily blending back into the dancing crowd. Reid followed a minute after, somewhat more conspicuously, glancing around at strangers and wondering if they’d seen what he’d just done.

“Did you get lost?” Garcia teased as he slipped back to his seat, and he gave her an awkward lopsided smile; this must have seemed normal for him, and she gave a good-natured laugh and picked up her drink again. “One of these days I’m going to take you out dancing and hook you up with a nice girl.”

Reid made a non-committal sound as he took a sip from his beer bottle, meeting Morgan's gaze.

“Or guy,” she added casually. Reid spluttered and felt the shock of bubbles coursing up his nose, and he coughed and screwed up his face.

“What?” Was all he managed, terrified for a moment she might have some technology, some way of knowing.

“Well I’m doing this new thing where I don’t assume anyone’s sexual orientation,” Garcia explained, characteristic grin on her face, “I'd hate people to assume I'm straight. Makes things a lot more exciting too, actually, if I don’t know which way they swing. The fantasising possibility is delicious. And it strikes me that there must be some hot nerdy gay boys who would totally be into you.”

He knew she was teasing, but he was scared if he answered even in jest it would give him away, reveal what had passed between him and Morgan and what was going to happen later that night.

“Garcia, I think I’ll be at a considerable disadvantage attracting anyone if you somehow convinced me to dance.”

“He’s right, Garcia,” JJ interjected, alerting Reid suddenly to the fact she was listening to the conversation, “he’s all legs, he probably looks like a baby giraffe on the dance floor.” She smirked at him over her own beer.

“Actually an infant giraffe can walk an hour after it’s been born, and they can run at speeds up to fifty three kilometres an hour, juveniles-”

“And if the dancing doesn’t scare them away, his freakish giant brain will,” Garcia teased. Reid feigned hurt, playing along. He knew their teasing was affectionate, and his ‘freakish giant brain’ got plenty of praise from them too. It hadn't always been so easy to take, but now, he even sometimes gave as good as he got.

“Don’t worry, Spence,” JJ said kindly, “you’ll find the right woman – or guy -” she added with a look at Garcia and a shared laugh, obviously not really entertaining the idea of Reid being so inclined, “who will love that big brain of yours.”

Morgan, eyes positively burning into him, winked.

---

Reid was looking out the window of the cab when he felt Morgan’s hand slide across the top of his thigh and onto his crotch. He snapped his head around to look at him, smiling seductively at him in the dark. He glanced forward, checking that the driver wasn’t looking at them in the rear view mirror, but Morgan didn’t wait for confirmation; he squeezed Reid’s cock through his slacks, leaning over to put his lips against the shell of Reid’s ear.

“Is he looking?” he whispered, having noticed Reid checking the mirror.

“No,” Reid said, keeping his eyes there as he felt the scrape of teeth against his ear. It sent a shiver of reaction down his spine towards the heat pooling in his groin under Morgan’s kneading hand. “Yes,” he said when they stopped at a set of lights and the driver’s eyes met his in the mirror.

Morgan didn’t pull away; in fact he squeezed his groin harder and took the lobe of Reid’s ear between his lips.

“Morgan...” Reid warned from low in his throat, but he didn’t move; moving would make it obvious was what going on, and he didn’t really want the contact to stop. The red light seemed to drag on forever, the stranger’s eyes raking over the goings-on in the back seat as Reid curled his fingers around Morgan’s forearm, feeling the way the man’s muscles moved under his grasp as he continued to palm his crotch.

When they moved again Morgan kissed along Reid’s jaw, slowly towards his mouth and making his destination clear. Reid finally drew his gaze away from the mirror at the front of the cab, meeting the darkness of Morgan’s eyes for a second before the man’s face was too close to focus, and his natural instinct was to close his eyes and fall in to it, a kiss that quickly became needy, tongues and the edge of teeth.

When the taxi stopped Morgan pulled away, removing his hand too. Reid adjusted the front of his slacks self consciously and got out of the car, fishing in his pocket for his wallet as he went.

“Here,” Morgan said, coming around the back of the vehicle and handing him a few bills so they could split the fare, and Reid handed it to the driver through his open window without making eye contact.

“Keep the change,” he said amiably, and the driver gave a nondescript nod to the men before he drove away. He'd probably seen worse.

Reid didn’t wait for Morgan, trusting he’d follow him up the stoop of his apartment building. Morgan didn’t touch him again until they were in Reid’s apartment and he'd locked the door; then Morgan’s hand was at his neck with his thumb against his jaw and he was kissing him, pressing him to the wall.

They had been here several days before, and even though he shouldn't profile his friend, like then Morgan was obviously used to being in control, the one to lead in such encounters; Reid submitted willingly for now, opening his mouth for the kiss to deepen.

Unlike the last time, the first time, Reid didn’t hesitate to put his hands on Morgan’s body, under his shirt, feeling the hot skin of his back. Reid was already hard from the attention in the taxi, and as he pushed his hips forward he recognised a similar state in Morgan.

“What do you want?” Morgan asked. Reid continued to kiss him, processing the question. He wondered if this was like last time, if Morgan wanted to hear Reid say what he wanted, ask for it.

“What do you mean?” he asked between two kisses, feeling Morgan’s other hand at his hip, his thumb in place to press down on his hip bone like he had the first time.

“What do you want to do?”

Reid couldn’t stop his brain analysing the way the question was phrased; it was seeking his consent, it wasn’t assuming what would happen. Not control then, an offer, the decision left to Reid. The conclusion for some reason made a wave of emotion Reid couldn’t quite comprehend sweep through him, and he pressed his body into Morgan’s, kissing him harder.

“I want the same as last time,” Reid said hoarsely, “but...” he felt himself blushing, even though he was already pressing himself to the other man, his erection clear through his slacks.

“But?”

“I want to go on top,” Reid said quickly. He felt Morgan pause against him.

“Reid,” Morgan’s voice was soft, hands still on him, “I don’t... I don’t-”

“No, I mean,” Reid fumbled, realising Morgan misunderstood him and stomach clenching with the implication of it, “I don't mean 'top' as in the denotation of sexual role during penetration, I still want you to penetrate me, but I want to get on top of you.”

Last time he had needed to be held, to be led, guided away from the dark place he was going. This time he wasn't agitated, at least not with anything worse than the near-pain of his erection straining against the seam of his slacks.

“Oh, right,” Morgan breathed, pressing his lips to Reid’s again. “Okay.” Another kiss, tongues rolling against each other. “Couch?”

The sight of Morgan sat on the middle of his couch, hand palming his erection through his jeans made Reid dizzy. He pushed his hair away from his forehead nervously, managing to poke himself in cheek with the corner of a box of condoms. He pulled a face and Morgan gave a low laugh, warm, not fraught like the last time.

Morgan hummed appreciatively when Reid put his knees either side of Morgan’s thighs and straddled his lap, bracing his hands on his shoulders. Their lips met once again, the kiss immediately fierce and deep. He helped him shimmy out of of his shirt, belt, slacks, leaving just his underwear and one green stripy sock and one grey with blue birds on it. Then Reid began on Morgan's belt.

“In a hurry?” Morgan teased. Reid met his eyes, smiling breathlessly and letting a laugh pass his lips.

“I'm extremely aroused.”

“And just what are we gonna do about that?” Morgan asked, as his hand dipped into Reid's briefs to wrap around his cock.

“Ah, that's something,” Reid said breathily, resting his forehead against Morgan's. “But the most effective remedy for my arousal is going to be penetration. You're going to fuck me.”

“Damn, Reid. Can't mix the scientific and the dirty talk like that.”

“You're a smart man, I'm sure you follow.”

“Nah, I mean you'll finish me off with it.”

“Yeah?”

Underwear finally removed, Morgan pressed his slick middle finger against Reid's hole and through, impaling him on his thick digit. Reid groaned and pressed down against the invasion, relishing how good it felt. His hips moved automatically, lifting a little way and pushing down again, fucking himself on the finger.

They kissed as he pressed the second lubricated finger against his hole, Reid slowing enough to allow the man to push both into him and stretch him further. When Morgan curled his fingers against the other’s prostate Reid cried out and gripped hard at the back of the couch, grinding his hips down into the contact.

“You’re loud,” Morgan murmured.

“Sorry,” Reid whispered, feeling more than a heat from sex rise in his cheeks.

“Not criticising,” he said, curling his fingers again and getting another loud moan to fall from the man’s lips, “it’s hot.”

“Morgan...” Reid moaned, “oh!” as Morgan ground circles on his prostate, sending electric shocks of pleasure through him. He could do this to Reid forever if he didn’t know the delicacy that came next. “I’m ready.”

“Really?” Morgan asked, slowing his fingers. Reid nodded, hair bouncing around his head, cheeks and neck flushed red. “Okay.” He removed his fingers slowly, and went for his fly and a condom.

“Let me,” Reid said, taking the packet from him as he sat back on Morgan's lap.

Reid's fingers were steady deft, confident. It was maybe the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

His thin legs betrayed surprising strength as he lifted and angled himself, the head if Morgan’s cock pressing at his hole, hot and slick, felt when it twitched against him. He pressed down and after a few second’s resistance Morgan's cock sank two inches into him.

Reid cried out and gripped the closest hold, which was the back of the sofa and Morgan’s shoulder. Morgan moved his hands around to grip Reid’s rear, supporting his lithe body as he slowly pressed down, easing the pressure on his knees and thighs. He was shaking by the time he’d managed to impale himself completely on Morgan’s big cock, breathing hard with his forehead pressed to Morgan’s.

“Ah,” he sounded, screwing up his face. “Oh. Ah.”

“You okay?” Morgan breathed, letting a hand stroke along the man’s back, damp with sweat.

“Yeah,” he nodded, but discomfort flickered across his features.

“You sure?” Morgan’s deep voice rumbled up from his chest.

Reid nodded again, and kissed Morgan’s mouth, tasting the lingering tang of beer there. He knew they’d probably progressed here faster than was optimal, but it felt so good he didn’t want to backtrack. He ran his tongue along the man’s bottom lip, worrying the soft flesh between his teeth. Morgan shifted his hips and Reid gasped, grip tightening on Morgan’s shoulder and his muscles around his cock. Morgan grunted and gripped Reid’s backside harder.

Morgan had always been so sure he didn't want this, didn't want men, but as he drank in the sight of Reid's smooth pale chest, dashed with freckles, tinged pink around his collar and chest, he couldn’t help dipping his head to press his lips against Reid’s flesh.

His skin was hot, and tasted tangy and sweet. In that moment, so alight with want and need, the fact that the object of his desire was a man seemed of little importance; it was more important that it was Reid; smart and awkward and absolutely captivating as he began to roll his hips against Morgan. He traced his lips up to Reid’s collar, drawing needy sighs from him, long fingers splayed against the back of Morgan’s head, keeping him there as he sucked at Reid's prominent clavicle.

Reid’s roll of his hips became a small lift and drop, and Morgan met his pace, sliding his cock in and out. The friction quickly drove Reid to let the moans tip from his mouth, to grip hard at the back of the sofa to give himself leverage to move in the way he needed to keep it feeling so good. Morgan’s hands had dropped to his rear again and were gripping hard, helping to keep the rhythm of their fucking.

“God!” Morgan gasped, and Reid couldn’t help but feel pleased he had enticed blasphemy from a man with such clear disdain for religion. “God!” he muttered against the man’s neck, between suction directly over the place where Reid’s pulse danced under his skin. “You’re so tight!”

Reid moaned needily from the back of his throat, increasing pace to what was optimal to keep that delicious friction moving within him. Every time he pushed down and Morgan pushed up into him Reid felt like the man was stabbing his prostate, even though he knew that was physically impossible at this angle; Morgan’s cock couldn’t curl tight like his fingers and stroke him directly on the bundle of nerves, but his length and girth was substantial enough for the pressure to feel like he filled every part of him.

Even as he was being fucked, fucking Morgan, fucking himself on Morgan, he couldn’t stop a part of his brain whirring with analysis. This feeling, this pleasure, must be something evolution had optimised for its benefit for survival. It couldn’t be about procreation because that was not how males were compatible, and the idea of evolution having a “goal” was entirely anthropomorphic, like saying the desire of the eye was to see rather than it being a beneficial competent of a wide and complex biological system that had developed over millennia.

But really, it didn’t even matter how or why it felt so good for Morgan to thrust in and out of him over and over, biting at his shoulder and gripping the globes of his backside, whether it was natural or not wouldn’t stop Reid seeking it again and again, but he wanted to know. He wanted to know everything, to feel it, to understand it. Not to justify it to anyone else, or even to himself, but just to know.

The hypnotic effect of their coupling was broken as Reid felt one of Morgan’s hands at his jaw, angling his face for a kiss. Reid closed his eyes and kissed easily, thought no longer necessary to move his lips against the other’s, no worry about technique as their tongues darted forward and met, warm and wet to curl around each other.

Morgan dropped his hand from Reid’s face between them, finding his solid cock and wrapping his hand around it. Reid gasped and gripped harder at the back of Morgan’s neck, letting Morgan’s other hand help guide his hips as his motion became more frantic. He held their heads together, sweaty foreheads pressed against each other as he rode Morgan’s cock towards his finished, aided now by Morgan’s hand stroking him and his hips thrusting upwards feverishly.

“Morgan...” Reid panted, “Morgan.” He crushed his face into the man’s neck, gripping hard at the back of the sofa, legs beginning to ache from the strain of repeated movement, hips helping to impale himself and press into the hand that stroked him.

He gasped, the sound stretched out in a keening moan as his body twitched and thrust erratically and he emptied over Morgan’s stomach and hand, feeling it in every nerve ending he had.

Morgan grunted against the feeling of Reid clamping down hard around him as he came, saying his name. Nobody had ever said his name as they came – and by god he'd made a lot of women come. Witnessing it, feeling it, causing it, had always been erotic, but this time it was his dear friend, repeating his name as he rode out his finish, increasingly breathless against his neck and ear. It was more than enough to undo Morgan, and with both hands like a vice on Reid’s bony hips, crushing him against him as the man still throbbed and squeezed and rolled his hips, he came hard, alternate grunts and moans rumbling in his chest.

Eventually Reid’s hands gave up their grip, and he wrapped his arms around Morgan’s neck, breathing heavily. Morgan stroked over Reid’s hips, soothing where he’d gripped him. There were already subtle bruises there from the last time he’d held onto him so tightly. Their pulses beat a flurry where they were still connected.

“You okay?” Morgan asked finally, turning his face against Reid's, cheek against cheek.

“Mhmm,” Reid sounded. It was then that Morgan noticed Reid had been wearing his socks the whole time. He chuckled.

“Do you always keep your socks on for sex?” he asked.

“Out of the seven times I’ve had sex,” Reid murmured, flexing his hips against Morgan, “this is the first time I remember having socks on.” He listened to the sound of Morgan’s breathing, feeling his chest rise and fall against him. “I guess you’ve had sex seven times in a week before now.”

“Maybe when I was in college,” Morgan chuckled. “Not embarrassed, are you?”

“How much sex I’ve had isn’t something that makes sense for me to be embarrassed about,” Reid said. “Not that I wouldn’t have liked to of had more of it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Going to Caltech at thirteen isn’t conducive to a normal college experience.”

Morgan pressed on the back of Reid’s thigh, a silent sign for him to get up. Reid did, collapsing on the sofa next to Morgan and watching with a silent curiosity as the man deftly removed the condom from himself and tied the end of it. He flung it at the nearby wastebin and it went in, and Reid found himself pulling a face at the idea of it missing and the awkward scramble he’d have to make to put it right. As it was, Morgan collapsed back against the sofa, tucking himself back into his jeans.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

Reid looked over at Morgan, considering the friendly warmth that was returning to his voice to replace the rugged want.

“Nineteen,” he said with a smile that felt awkward on his face. “How old were you?”

“Fifteen. Monique Jackson. In her bedroom when her parents were out. She’s married twice with four kids now.”

“Nina Walker,” Reid offered. “I was in a study group with her. We did it in my dorm while her friend sat outside and waited. She never really acknowledged I existed again after that.”

“Did you like her?”

“I didn’t really know her,” Reid said honestly, “but I guess I wanted to have sex, and she was willing, and it happened.”

“Didn’t you want it to be special, and all that?” Morgan asked, half-teasing him.

“I never understood why sex is the only thing where the first time is idealised as special, when for everything else the first time is when you make all the mistakes and just get used to the concept of whatever it is.”

“That’s a good point,” Morgan chuckled. “I guess because sex is so important to people.”

“Or not important at all,” Reid said. Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“Hey now.”

“I didn't mean anything by it,” Reid said evenly. “But you do have a lot of sex. People would probably say it’s either really important or it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“By ‘people’ you mean you? Which one do you think it is?” Morgan asked, his voice calm. It was hard to get annoyed in the fuzz of post-orgasm, and Reid was the least judgemental person he knew.

“I don’t think your sex life is any of my business,” Reid said. “Except for the times I’m involved, I guess.”

“So technically it’s your business tonight; which is it?”

“Don’t ask me to profile you, Morgan.”

“Okay,” Morgan said, waving his hands in defeat. He got up, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“You’re not staying,” Reid said. It was a statement rather than a question as he reached for his own clothing.

“We both know what this is,” Morgan said easily, not looking at Reid as he held the phone to his ear. Reid listened to him ordering a cab as he put his own clothing on, ignoring that he’d done his buttons up wonky.

Of course Reid knew what it was; it was sex. Sex was great, and for Morgan it was a recreational activity without necessity of emotional connection or commitment. Reid didn’t think there was anything inherently wrong with that, it was just that he didn’t know what sex was to him. He hadn’t had enough of it to know what he wanted from it, his difficulty socially didn't help. Being in the presence, intimately so, of someone as sure of themselves as Morgan made it even harder to figure out.

“I had fun tonight,” he said finally as Morgan’s hand was on the doorknob, hoping it would be enough to make things normal between them again.

“Me too, Reid,” Morgan said, smiling at him. ”I have to go. Shouldn’t leave Clooney alone all night again, he’ll pine.”

Reid nodded, trying to stop everything in his brain slipping sideways.

“I’ll see you in briefing tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Reid nodded. He saw Morgan out, watching him walk down the hall without looking back.

“Perhaps people like us cannot love. Ordinary people can – that is their secret.” – Hermann Hesse

Chapter Text

“No one appreciates the very special genius of your conversation as the dog does.” - Christopher Morley

“Don’t give me that look,” Morgan said, without looking up from the fridge.

Clooney made a little whining sound in his throat; he had always been “talkative”, responding to Morgan’s inane chatter or direct commands with some kind of sound.

Sometimes it was so convincing Morgan was lulled into thinking Clooney understood his speech rather than simply his tone and volume. Sometimes he just got drunk and talked to his dog.

He was an intelligent dog, a tan boxer, a reject from the police force after a crush injury to his foot ended his career at seven months when his training had really just begun. It had healed completely, but service dog training was intensive, and Clooney had been left behind.

He’d been adopted-out like many rejected or ex police dogs were, via contacts and friends-of-friends, and the most Morgan expected of him was to bark at any intrusion and not pee indoors.

Morgan opened the top of his fifth beer and padded back into his living room, heading for the couch. There were two slices of pizza left in the box from dinner, and even though Morgan was hungry because he’d kept drinking - alone, he knew if he went to eat he’d end up sharing with the dog, because he was a little too drunk to enforce the rules.

Clooney, who had hopped onto the sofa, rested his head in Morgan’s lap, looking up at him with expressive eyes. Morgan relented quickly, giving him a scratch behind the ears.

“I’m too good to you,” Morgan said to the dog, words slightly slurred. He offered his hand and Clooney mouthed playfully at it. “Treat you like a little baby... or a lady.” Morgan nodded.

“I think I’m going mad, boy; haven’t actually been with a woman since-” he drifted off, staring through the TV rather than at it as it sounded and flickered.

Clooney made a cute whining sound, as if in response to Morgan. The man was at the point where he was just drunk enough not to consider that Clooney was just making noise, rather than actually responding.

“Well, for two weeks. Doesn’t sound like a long time, but last week... you remember Reid?” The dog cocked his head to the side. “The skinny guy, the one who went all stiff and weird when you jumped up at him wanting to play. Remember him?”

Clooney gave a quick bark, watching Morgan’s face in the most convincing way.

“I had sex with him.” Morgan nodded, exaggerated look of thought on his face, lips slightly pouted. A weird performance for the sole benefit of his one-dog audience. “Like real sex. Gay sex.”

He leant forward and retrieved a lukewarm slice of pizza from the box, not noticing the sudden extra attention his companion animal was paying to him. He took a might, thinking and chewing.

“You know I’ve never even had that kind of sex with women,” he admitted, mouth full of pizza. Clooney’s eyes were flicking between his alpha’s face and the slice of pizza he had in hand.

“I usually only have first dates,” he slurred, “and I dunno, feels rude to ask for that on date one, two three. They don't wanna go there. I mean obviously, why would they? It hurts.”

He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose. Being drunk meant if he wasn’t careful he was liable to start thinking about things he didn’t want to, and wouldn’t be able to stop. At least he didn't have to explain himself to the damn dog. And yet—

“Reid liked it,” he muttered, opening his eyes again.

Clooney whined, and Morgan relented, tearing off a piece of pizza for him.

“Like actually enjoyed having a dick in him.”

He paused, looking at his companion. Even in his drunken state, he wondered whether Clooney was the one he should be talking about sex with. The drink won the internal debate.

“I didn’t think anyone really liked that. I thought people just did it for the other person’s pleasure. But Reid... he wanted to do it, and he liked it. God, I hope he liked it. Because I was his first time, and man...”

Reid's neck covered in red marks. His hips bruises in the shape of Morgan's fingers.

“But he came, so—no, arousal can be automatic, I'm not gonna. Or it coulda been acquiescence.”

His thoughts were spiralling away from him. He was a good man. Wasn't he?

“Big word. Fuck, but we were sober. We both wanted it. Yeah. Yeah.”

Clooney gave a couple of small barks, and Morgan stroked his head.

“Yeah, I liked it too,” he muttered, and took a long drink from his beer. “And I have no idea what that means. I’m not into guys. I like women.”

Clooney pushed his snout under Morgan’s hand, licking at his palm. Morgan stroked him behind the ears absently, smiling.

“First time was after a case, and we just... you know, we were just reacting. The sex was reactionary,” Morgan slurred, addressing the dog, even though he knew somewhere in the haze of his drunken mind he was talking to himself.

“Then last week... well that was my fault. Just it was good the first time, how Reid was just, alive. I wanted it again. Wanted to be that close again. And we’re friends, y’know, Cloon? So it was just a friend thing. Just two friends, helping each other relieve stress. By having sex with each other.”

He hiccuped. Clooney gave an excited bark.

“But it’s been okay. Not weird. We’re both adults. We could be, yknow, friends with benefits.”

Another hiccup.

“We’ve had a couple of cases since then, and it was all cool. I’m not gay. Gay men are romantically attracted to other men. I’m not. I’m not... romantically attracted to anyone. Not for ages. What even is that? Reid would know.”

He pulled out his phone, tapping with his thumb. Not a single word of his enquiry was spelled correctly.

“Huh. Aromantic? Kinda like asexual, but for romance. But it's not like I don't want it, it's just. Work, yknow? Relationships are hard. I'm not gay though.”

Unvoiced, locked away as soon as the traitorous thought could make itself known:

Liar.

And so what if he was gay? He didn't have a problem with gay people. Or he could be bisexual, or just not care about gender at all!

But truly, the thought of someone calling him gay; it made his skin crawl.

His mama would be ashamed of him.

Clooney seemed to have finally lost interest in Morgan’s drunken babbling, because his head was rested on his lap again, eyes half-closed as Morgan strokes him absent-mindedly. In this situation, a silent listener equalled a good listener. The dog would never judge him for what he shared, or say anything to make Morgan think about things he didn’t want to.

“I’m straight,” he nodded assuredly to himself.

He was drunk enough to believe it was that simple.

“To regret one’s own experiences is to arrest one’s own development. To deny one’s own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one’s own life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.” - Oscar Wilde

Chapter Text

“The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender.” – Emil Ludwig

It happened under circumstances so similar yet so different to the first time. It was after a case again, and another ride home offered by a friend, but this time after a case that was most definitely a success; a serial arsonist apprehended before his body count peaked over five.

The two men had both set aside the previous encounter they’d had and were back on form, banter induced by a rather hilarious trip and stumble of an entrance into the bullpen on Reid’s part the previous day.

They were both laughing in the car as Morgan parked up outside Reid’s apartment building, and when Morgan leant across and kissed him mid-laugh Reid didn’t resist for even a second, giggles passing as he sunk into the kiss. This time they didn’t need words to confirm; Morgan ended up in Reid’s apartment a few minutes later, stripping him of his shirt, peppering kisses along his exposed shoulder. Morgan pulled off his shirt, and they tried to maintain a kiss as they both slipped off their shoes with little success but for restarting their laughter.

They kissed their way to Reid’s bedroom, where the light of the evening poured in through the window. Reid undid Morgan’s belt and pushed his trousers from his hips, and ran his hands up his side as their kiss deepened, tongues snaking around each other.

“What do you want?” Morgan breathed. Reid cupped the man’s hardness through the fabric of his boxers. “Oh, I see.” He grinned against those rosy lips.

Reid wasn’t sure he did understand what he wanted, so without words he showed him by pulling down his boxers, waiting for him to step out of those and his socks before he nudged the man back, and down into the sofa chair that stood by the bed, his favourite reading chair. Carefully he got on his knees between Morgan's legs, grazing his eyes over Morgan’s straining erection.

“I’ve never done this before,” Reid said.

“That's okay,” Morgan said, tipping Reid's chin up to look at him. “I trust you.”

The average healthy adult heart beat sixty to one hundred times per minute, and skipping beats was a form of arrhythmia. But still, right then—

“A risky move,” he said instead of something stupid, “considering how coordinated I've been this week.”

A laugh rumbled up from Morgan’s chest, as Reid ran his hand along the length of Morgan’s cock. It was hot and hard in his hand, pleasantly heavy.

Reid’s other hand, which had been braced on Morgan’s thigh, took his heavy balls and rolled them experimentally. Morgan gave an appreciative groan. Reid was excited to put so much theory into practice.

The man was clearly relaxed, and happy to let Reid take his time between his knees, fascinated with the way the dark foreskin moved with the motion of his fist. He possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of human anatomy, and that included the penis, so as he stroked his brain mapped out where the most nerve endings were, where the most delicate skin was, which muscles were filled with blood.

He knew, in theory, where the best places to put his hands and mouth would be, but he realised he wanted more than just to stimulate by rote memory; he actively wanted to put his mouth against Morgan's flesh and taste him.

So he did, pressing the tip of his tongue against the bead of moisture formed at the end of Morgan’s cock.

Morgan let out a long sigh as Reid pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, spreading the sweetness around. He lowered his mouth and put his lips against the reddish swollen head, feeling the heat and a twitch even as he held the base of the shaft with his hand. He let the head slip past his lips a little and ran his tongue around the underside, rewarded with a deep moan from Morgan, and a hand snaking out to brush against his cheek.

He let more into his mouth, testing the shape and weight of it against his tongue, which ran along the underside. He pulled back slowly, pursing his lips as he went, gauging that this was a good technique by his friend’s reaction; hips lifting, another long moan.

He repeated the cycle; taking the several inches he could comfortable manage into his mouth, adding a slight suction to help him, and then drew back and let his tongue lavish attention at the head. After repeating it several times he realised his hands had stilled, and theorising that multiple stimulations would make it even more enjoyable.

Morgan's slow-panting, his gripping the arms of the chair; Reid wanted to take him apart.

He began to roll the man’s ball in his hand again, giving them a gentle tug every time he had his mouth at the furthest point along Morgan’s cock. His other hand squeezed and twisted the base of cock, and after a while he dared to push down far enough for his lips to meet the edge of his fingers, letting the man’s cock test his gag reflex repeatedly.

Morgan was enraptured by the sight of Reid’s lips wrapped around him. The utter concentration the man was showing in his ministrations was both effective and sexy, and Morgan had to grip the arms of the chair hard to stop him grabbing at Reid.

His sharp jaw adjusted each time he bobbed his head, and Morgan found himself wanting to kiss along the flesh there; would he find the trace of stubble there? He hadn't the previous times, but god, why was he wondering that now? Why did he want that?

Just then the man gave an appreciative hum around him, and he swore under his breath and bucked against the sudden stimulation.

Reid couldn’t believe he hadn’t considered the adage of vibration during oral sex earlier; it was the principal employed by most sex toys, and he was certainly no stranger to the concept of those. He hummed again, making Morgan thrust up into his mouth wantonly. The taste was rich, smooth, strong and heady.

Reid pulled back slowly, pursing his lips as they slid over Morgan’s sensitive cock head. He adjusted his hold a little and put his mouth at the base of Morgan’s shaft, then licked a long flat stripe upwards back to the head.

“Fuck! Reid!” Morgan gasped. Reid looked up, catching the man’s eyes momentarily and then looking away, lapping at dribble of fluid from his cock.

“You're incredible. Look at me.”

Reid did, looking up at Morgan as he rested his lips against the head of his cock.

Eye contact had, and maybe would always be something Reid had to make special attempts to establish. For every boon he had that felt like it made a particular feature of his autism easier – a keen knowledge of human body language, social expectations, even just practice – it still felt like a skill he'd had to master.

This wasn't a magical trope from a poorly written erotic novel, but just a fact that eye contact with Morgan had always been the least intimidating, the effort feeling the most worthwhile.

But right then, at that moment, it did feel intimate, powerful. Easy.

He returned his mouth to the base of Morgan’s length, and this time wound his tongue up more slowly, savouring the heat of his flesh, the taste of him. He took the sensitive head into his mouth again, slipping his mouth down, and testing his gag reflex again.

Morgan groaned and put his hands on the back of Reid’s head, closing his eyes. He realised where they were a few seconds later and removed them, not wanting to make the other uncomfortable with the dominant motion. He felt fingers whispering over the veins on the back of his hands and opened his eyes again.

Reid was watching him, still bobbing his head along the length of Morgan’s thick cock when he gripped his hands and lifted them, putting them back to where they’d been against his head.

Morgan understood and delicately cradled the back of the man’s skull, lacing his fingers in the soft hair. His grip firmed as Reid increased pace and suction, finally averting his eyes so he could concentrate on the task at hand.

“Oh fuck,” Morgan grunted. Reid braced one thin hand on the hot skin of the man’s hip, the other he returned to his cock and began a joint motion of stroking his hand and his mouth along, meeting in the middle of Morgan's length. “You're gonna do me in if you keep going.”

Reid gave an excited hum and sucked luxuriously, slowly pulling his lips along the man’s cock and then pressing down again, hand twisting at his base.

“You want this?” Morgan asked breathlessly. Reid pulled back with an obscene pop.

“C'mon, Morgan,” Reid said, mouthing at his cock. “Don't start treating me like glass now. I'm where I wanna be.”

“You got it, Doctor.” Morgan gripped his hair harder and guided Reid’s mouth, an apparently dominant motion that was actually dictated by the pace Reid set; Morgan didn’t force him, didn’t push him further than he was able to go, lips and tongue and suction along the nerve endings alight under the skin of his throbbing cock.

“Fuck!” Morgan gasped, hips bucking upwards as his release raced from every fibre of his nervous system to his groin. He grunted as his release streaked the younger man’s tongue, Reid’s lips sealed around the head and sucking as his hand worked furiously to stimulate him through his climax.

Reid swallowed greedily, the salty release almost familiar – he'd tasted his own spend – but the context completely new. He was surprised by the amount of it, Morgan bucking his hips, moaning and grunting as he rode out his orgasm, hands gripping Reid’s scalp hard.

Finally, with a shudder, Morgan’s hips stilled and his grip loosened, panting in the aftermath. Reid continued to stroke the man’s residual hardness slowly, licking at the cock head slowly. He pursed his lips and blew a stream of cool air over the man’s sensitive head, making him groan.

“Damn, Reid...” he said, watching Reid licking his lips and sitting back on his haunches.

As Morgan pulled him into his lap, Reid felt the echo of pain in his leg from where he’d once taken a bullet. His mind felt clouded with arousal, and as much as his brain attempted to work in its usual way, it was exceedingly difficult as Morgan’s hands were unbuckling his belt and quickly extracting his cock from his slacks.

Morgan put his thumb under Reid's chin to angle his head just so, and paused. Hesitation, but not disgust; something else for him to never think about again. He kissed him.

He could taste what was certainly was his own semen on Reid’s mouth, and it sent a weak shiver of excitement through him.

Reid linked his arms loosely around Morgan’s neck, and Morgan began to stroke him.

“How did it feel?” Morgan murmured against the shell of Reid’s ear, delighted to feel the man lifting his hips to meet his hand. “My dick in your mouth?”

“Ah,” Reid groaned out, biting his lip. He didn’t know how to answer that, didn’t know if Morgan wanted an answer.

“C’mon, I know you've got a million word in that vocabulary, there's the world's best dirty talker in there somewhere.” The rich syrup of Morgan’s voice drizzled against Reid’s jaw as he put kisses there. “How did my dick in your mouth feel?”

“You're likely in the ninty-sixth percentile in terms of size, so, ah, big,” Reid breathed, followed by a small squeak as Morgan twisted his hand on his cock just so. Morgan gave a soft, dark chuckle.

“And how did I taste?” he whispered.

“Well semen is mostly compromised of fructose, proteolytic enzymes, citric acid, acid phosphatase,” Reid gasped, and Morgan kissed over his neck, flicking his tongue out against the bump there. “So, sweet.”

“Did you like it?” He spread his lips against Reid’s jaw again, his fist pumping furiously on Reid’s weeping cock.

“Yes. Morgan I—oh!”

Reid came hard, crying out as Morgan pumped his spurting cock furiously, emptying over Morgan's fist, back arching and legs pushing his hips upwards into the feeling, gripping desperately at Morgan's bicep.

“Nerdy dirty talk,” Morgan chuckled. “You're a man of many talents.”

Reid couldn’t respond as his body still quaked as his orgasm subsided. Morgan squeezes Reid’s cock, teasing the last dribble of semen from him. Reid keened breathlessly.

Morgan collapsed back in the chair, extracting his messy hand. Reid cast around for something, tissues, a towel—a handkerchief in his pocket, handed over.

“You sure that’s the first time you’ve done that?” Morgan asked.

“Yes.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“The concept is simple, really,” Reid said, too drained to gesticulate, “even if the colloquialism of ‘blowjob’ is misleading.”

“I guess you’re right,” Morgan laughed, “no blowing involved usually. Was that what that was? That little blowing at the end, just to make the name make sense?”

“Maybe.”

“Where did you learn about sucking dick, anyway?”

“I read a lot, Morgan.”

“Figures.”

“Actually, plenty of those. For example one of the earliest records of fellatio is considered to be in the Osiris and Isis myth of ancient Egypt; Osiris was cut up into pieces by his brother, and when his sister Isis put him together again his penis was missing, so an artificial one was moulded from clay and Isis sucked it to give life back to it.”

“Really?” Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“And did you know most linguists think ‘blowjob’ evolved from ‘blowoff’, meaning to end, to finish. There’s some debate on whether it has roots in eighteenth century Britain when sex workers were referred to as ‘blowers’, but there’s little to no evidence of the word blowjob actually being used.”

“I didn’t know that. But you actually learned how from books?”

“You’d be surprised just how many books there are on sexual activity.”

“I don’t think that would surprise me dude, maybe just how many of them you’ve read.”

“A lot.”

“Do you like learning that kinda stuff?” Morgan wondered aloud.

“I enjoy learning in general. Learning about human sexuality is definitely a fascinating topic.”

“So, yes?” Morgan turned his head, smiling at his friend.

“Yeah.” Reid held his gaze.

The moment stretched out as their breathing steadied. A dangerous thing.

“So,” Morgan said finally, beginning to shift. “I should get going.”

It was calmer than his exit the last time; Reid got up, let Morgan dress, found a shirt to wear. Reid knew Morgan would leave afterwards; this time he expected it; it didn’t mean he liked it. It was so good in the moment, but after, it was as the 'friends' part of 'friends with benefits' didn't apply.

He looked down at his feet, realising he still had his socks on – again. He wiggled his toes and bit his lip, turning to look at Morgan; dark muscled back to him as he pulled up his jeans over his shapely rear.

“We can’t do this again,” Reid said, breaking the silence.

“What?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, turning as he did up his jeans. “You wanna stop?”

“What’s the most times you’ve had sex with the same person?” Reid posed.

“I don't know,” he shrugged, “a couple of times.”

“This is the third time we’ve had sex – sexual contact.” Reid paced his words, knowing he was liable to rush through in the effort to get everything his brain lined up for him to say out.

“So?” Morgan pulled his shirt on hastily. “We’re friends, we're adults, just having fun. You've been having fun, right?”

“I’m not like you, Morgan,” Reid said.

“Kid, look, it's fine. I don't care if you're bi or gay, I'm just—that ain't that for me.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Reid said carefully, instead of beginning a long-winded explanation of the spectrum of attraction and sexuality being broader than ‘straight’, 'bi' and ‘gay’.

“I said I’m not like you. Every sexual encounter I’ve had has been a one-time thing, just recreational; but not by choice. Not like you.”

He looked to Morgan, who opened his mouth as if to speak.

“I’m not judging you,” Reid added quickly. “You’re so sure of what you want. I’m not – I don’t know what I want, I don’t know what significance sex has in my life. And if it turns out sex to me is part of a more complex connection to other people, I don’t want to keep having sex with you only to know I’m going to have to stop because we’re not compatible, that I’m never going to make that connection with you.”

“What...?” Morgan shook his head a little. “Are you saying you want us to date?”

It came out harsher than he wanted. Like it was the only way Morgan knew how to hide the fact that his chest felt tight at the idea. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, or why his brain was trying to complicate things like it never had before with other people he’d had sex with.

Reid didn’t answer, pressing his lips together and closing his eyes for a second. He’d entertained those thoughts, but he had always known they were fantasy; Morgan’s reaction only served to confirm this. It wouldn’t be fair to let it show that it hurt to realise he had romantic feelings towards his friend, and that his friend had none for him, at exactly the same time.

“I’m saying that I don’t know if I’m capable of engaging in casual sex without forming other attachments in the way you are. And it’s not logical, knowing that, to keep having sex with you.” Reid explained. ”I don't want to impact our friendship.”

“Do you have to analyse everything?” Morgan said, exasperated. “Can’t you just go with it like a normal person, for once?”

“I don’t think it’s fair,” Reid said, annoyance seeping into his voice, “that you’d ask me to ignore the potential for things to get complicated for me in order for you to still get what you want.”

“How would it get complicated?”

“I already explained, I don’t know what sex means to—”

“So you don’t want to have sex with me any more in case what?” Morgan asked. “Dude, it’s been great. And things haven’t changed between us, have they? We’re friends.”

“This isn’t what friendship feels like!” Reid snapped.

Morgan’s lips parted in surprise, his eyebrows hitching upwards.

“Not to me. I know it is to you, but I don’t understand how I feel about you, man. It’s always been different to how I feel about my other friends, and it might just be because you’re the first best friend I’ve ever had and I’m just getting confused,” he babbled, trying to explain something he didn’t even understand fully when it was swirling in his own mind, “and then we had sex, and that was a catalyst for-”

He rubbed his hands self-consciously on his face, sighing out.

“I don’t want to keep having sex with you, knowing you’re only ever going to be my friend.”

“You want more from me?” Morgan asked, sound as confused as he looked. Reid didn’t answer, staring like a deer in headlights at his friend. “Have you got a crush on me or something?”

Reid couldn’t hide the hurt on his face at Morgan’s words; he made him feel infantilised, like how he felt was childish and foolish. It hurt most because he was sure Morgan was right.

“Dude, it’s just sex,” Morgan said, in that same scolding tone. “I’m not gay.”

“Neither am I,” Reid said quietly.

“Oh c’mon,” Morgan gestured emphatically. “Starting all this, wanting to get fucked, sucking my dick.” He pointed at the bed. “I thought we made it clear, this was just fucking? I’m not gay. I’m never gonna be gay.”

“I haven’t once said you are!” Reid waved his hands exasperatedly. “But does it even matter if you’re not straight, Morgan? What if-”

“Back off!” Morgan barked, looking livid. “You need to back the hell off. You don’t know me, you don’t know what I am!”

“I don't know you? I know you're not a homophobe, I know that you're going through something that is making you—”

“STOP.”

Reid didn't flinch.

“We're done with this,” Morgan said firmly. “All of it.”

Reid didn’t move as Morgan stormed out of the bedroom, waiting until he heard his apartment door slam closed before he rubbed furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hand and let a frustrated sound climb out of his throat.

---

Back off. ‘Back off’ is what he’d told his best friend when it had become clear he was having some of the same feelings that Morgan was. He swore loudly and punched the tough fabric of the punching bag in his home gym, and laid several more into it as he thought over what had transpired just an hour before.

He’d acted as if Reid was the instigator, when he knew full well that all three times they’d been together he had started it with a kiss.

Worst than that, he’d accused Reid of being gay as if it was an accusation at all, as if it was a detriment and an insult. He’d never been homophobic – his mother had raised him better than that - even as a cop when it had been rife amongst other officers, he'd shut that shit down.

But he still had the bitter sensation in the back of his throat from such ugliness rearing its head with Reid.

Reid admitting, in his own fumbling way, that he had more than platonic feelings towards him absolutely terrified Morgan. It made him think about his own feelings, made him think that all those moments with Reid that had felt so strange and wonderful had to be more than friendship.

If no woman had ever made him feel like this, if this was because of a man, had he been in denial all this time about being gay? And if that was true, when did it happen? He hadn't liked guys before... everything. At least he didn't remember liking guys.

He felt physically sick trying to remember it, and clung to the punching bag.

He had enough experience with the human mind to know there could be a huge environmental factor to the formation of sexual identity, and the thought that what he was feeling for Reid might be directly connected to what had been forced onto him as a youngster was absolutely disgusting.

He had told Carl Buford in confrontation that he had made him, turned him into someone who hunted men like him, but the idea of accrediting him with his close friendship with Reid was unbearable. If they were connected, everything good about that friendship justified what he’d suffered through; Morgan did not want to forgive that.

Forgiveness was never something that could heal him, because it was akin to saying what had happened was allowable, negated how heinous and despicable it still felt. It was no justice to forgive someone for doing that.

He would never, ever inflict Reid with feelings that could have been born from what those cruel hands had made of him.

“Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more.” – Erica Jong

Chapter Text

“It is the very use of coercion, positive or negative, that breaks or deadens the spirit, which is the source of motivation.” – Kelly Bryson

James York had kidnapped, raped, sexually tortured and finally murdered five teenage boys - that they could confirm - over the past decade. The BAU had been called in when locals finally connected the most recently disappearance and subsequent body discovery with four others. In the days since they’d arrived in Hancock County, Iowa, another boy had gone missing. Fourteen year old Gregory Taylor had been missing for two days.

As well as having a dangerous predator to track down, the BAU team had had to deal with a chief of police who conflated all male homosexuality with the unsub they were hunting, which had ultimately ended in an illegal raid on a gay bar in which police had brutally beaten three men.

Garcia, back at Quantico had been considerable affected by this; and the last time they’d conversed via camera it hadn’t gone unnoticed that in the back of shot there was now a big rainbow flag, and each time she talked to a member of the team another fact or statistic about anti-gay violence tumbled out.

Reid, of course, had his own collection of them, and between them Morgan was feeling both informed and depressed by the information.

Everything about this case was affecting Morgan more than usual; and he couldn’t pretend it also wasn’t because he and Reid’s only communication in the last two weeks had been when it was about work or a case. There were no jokes, there was no banter, and Morgan missed it. And now this case, with the anti-gay veins appearing, was a little close to the nerve of the reason they weren’t talking.

Morgan felt like shit about it.

---

“What did Gregory like to do for fun, Brett?” Morgan asked. The teenage boy ran his thumb around the rim of his soda can, nursing it.

“Computer games.” Brett shrugged. “Baseball. We’re on a team together.”

“Okay,” Morgan nodded, smiling kindly “Anything you tell us can be helpful.”

From her place leaning against a kitchen cabinet Prentiss offered a smile, too.

“You got our GSA shut down,” Brett murmured, meeting Morgan’s gaze.

“Your GSA?”

“Gay-straight alliance.”

“We didn’t mean for that to happen,” Prentiss said.

“I know,” Brett shrugged. “Just, it took three months to get the school to let us have one, and they shut it down today. People said we can try getting it back up and running later... but I think the school was waiting for something like this. Something they could say was a good reason not to let us have a club to go to. Greg kept saying he was gonna come to a meeting.”

“Is Greg gay?” Morgan asked.

“He said he thought he might be bi,” Brett explained. “He was confused. It’s not like there’s anyone to really talk to here.”

“Do you know if he went anywhere on the internet to try figure things out?”

“I guess.” Another shrug. “Everyone’s on the internet. But he wouldn’t meet anyone from the internet or anything-” he added quickly. “Nobody’s stupid like that any more.”

“Are you sure?” Prentiss asked. “People can pretend to be someone different over the internet.”

“But people don’t.” Brett made a face. “People put loads of information on there. Not, like, their address, but they blog and stuff and take pictures of themselves and chat with webcams... most people are who they say. Greg’s not stupid, he wouldn’t meet someone he didn’t know was a real person.”

“Okay,” Morgan sad patiently.

---

“Mr Whitehall, may we come in and talk?” Rossi asked.

“Not if you’re cops,” the man said.

“I’m Special Agent David Rossi,” he said with practised ease, “and this is Dr. Reid. We’re with the FBI.”

“Then you're cops.”

“Mr Whitehall, please”, Reid said, before he could close the door. “We're behavioural analysts based out of Virginia, we don't work with the cops who assaulted you and we want to help.”

“Okay.”

The man let them in, and they were able to see exactly why the man’s reluctance to talk to police officers was justified. His arm was broken and in a cast, he had three stitched in a gash on his head, and the left side of his face was so bruised his eye was swollen shut. He led them into the living room and they sat, the injured man with a pained sound.

“You told an officer at the hospital that you might have heard something about the man we’re looking for,” Rossi said. “Mr Whitehall, would you tell us what that was?”

“And what’s to stop the cops pinning this all on me, or someone like me?”

“You’re not a suspect—” Reid started.

“Oh please. Police in this town can make anything stick.”

“You’re going to get justice for what happened to you,” Rossi said patiently.

“There were lots of witnesses to what happened,” Reid added.

“Justice? Are you shitting me?” the man scoffed. “Punishment, maybe. If those officers don’t get let off with a demotion or early retirement instead. Justice would be if I could ambush those two officers in the only place in this town they feel safe and beat them unconscious. And the ones that stood back and let them do what they did can stand back and watch it happen again.”

Reid swallowed uncomfortably. Both agents knew it wasn’t their place to tell this man how to feel about what had happen to him.

“Mr Whitehall, please,” Rossi said. “You might be able to help us catch the man we’ve after. He’s killed five teenage boys we know of, and he has one, alive, somewhere right now.”

“There was this guy,” Mr Whitehall relented, “a few weeks ago at the bar. Hadn’t seen him around before. There was a bunch of us talking, and he was weird.”

“Weird, how?” Reid asked.

“He was talking about tricks. Every guy knows another guy who’s turned a trick once or twice, and guys who trick are on the scene like any other guy. It’s no big deal, and it’s nobody’s business except for the people involved in the sex. So nobody on the scene really has a problem with tricks. But this guys... he was talking trash. Really creepy things, rape-y things. Y’know, like about them asking for it, about them getting what was coming to them? God, he made everyone uncomfortable. Then he got his phone out and tried to show people some pictures. Most guys split, but I couldn’t really avoid it and I saw... god, I thought it was just hardcore porn or something.”

“What were the pictures of, Mr Whitehall?”

“A guy tied up. Couldn’t see his face, but there was definitely blood. I just thought it was hardcore kinky stuff, I didn’t think it could be... then they started talking about a serial killer. I mean I didn’t see the picture for long, but it didn’t look like a kid. But..”

“Do you remember what the man looked like?” Rossi asked.

“Yeah.”

“Would you consider coming down to the station to sit with a sketch artist?”

“No.” The man visibly flinched and shook his head.

“Sir, I know-” Reid wanted to say something helpful, but the words didn’t make it.

“No you don’t know,” the man rushed. “How could you possibly know? But I’ve got a picture of him.”

“You have?”

“Yeah,” the man fished in his pocket for his phone, “he was in the shot when I was taking a picture of my friends. Here,” he showed them the phone, “the guy on the left, in the leather jacket.”

---

“Take Reid in with you,” Rossi advised.

“He’d not his type," Hotch pointed out, obviously understanding Rossi’s intent. Reid listened quietly, with arms folded over his chest. A stolen glance told him that Morgan was staring through the one-way glass at the unsub, didn’t even look up as the men discussed tactics.

“He’s the closest thing we’ve got to a teenage boy.”

It didn’t even occur to Reid to be offended by this idea; if they couldn’t get the unsub to talk, a teenage boy was going to starve to death or worse wherever he was being held.

“Roll your sleeves down, Reid,” Hotch said. Reid nodded and did so, understanding that his arms might be just masculine enough to put off the unsub.

Everyone involved in the case had been referring to him as a paedophile for the last three days, and Reid hadn’t corrected them on a more accurate term; he was an ephebophile, as his preference was obviously pubescent boys of around fourteen and fifteen. Reid had learned long ago that when it came to the abuse of children, even if the term paedophilia was incorrectly applied, the words it was labelled with mattered little.

He entered the interrogation room behind Hotch and didn’t meet the unsub’s eye. He needed to look as uncomfortable and vulnerable as possible. Morgan, on the other side of the glass watched as the subject’s eyes trained on the agent that wouldn’t look at him as he sat down. He watched as Reid put his hands in his lap under the table and was surprised at just how fluidly Reid could make himself look boyish, despite being six foot one.

“Are you a faggot?” the unsub, York, asked. Reid exaggerated his reaction to the word, flinching noticeably and squirming in his seat. “You think I’m going to talk to you because you brought a little faggot with you?” he asked Hotch, but his eyes didn’t leave Reid.

“I’m special agent Aaron Hotchner,” Hotch said evenly, “this is Spencer Reid.”

Reid noticed the lack of his usual title, but it made sense; ‘doctor’ was a term reserved for adults, and they were attempting to appeal to a predator who liked teenagers.

“So, Spencer,” York drawled, “you gonna answer my question? Are you a fag?”

“We can link you to four-” Hotch began, but the unsub sneered at him.

“Was I talking to you? No, I wasn’t.” He promptly turned his attention to Reid, who still wasn’t looking at him. “How old are you, eleven?” he teased. “The first boy I had had more hair than you. Look at you. Twelve, tops.”

“And you like older boys, don’t you?” Reid said, suddenly lifting his gaze to meet the steel blue eyes of the unsub.

His face flashed with anger and neither agent could react fast enough; York, whose hands were resting cuffed on the table, shot up and smashed Reid hard in the face. He let out a yelp and clutched at his cheek, his chair rocking dangerously. His head spun but he could hear Hotch shouting, and he understood well enough to push himself away from the table and fumble for the door.

He fell through it and was met with large hands on his shoulders to steady him; he blinked a few times as he willed his cognitive function to return to normal and realised it was Morgan.

There was noise and bustling as police officers went into the interrogation room to cuff the suspect more securely. Morgan squeezed his shoulders and Reid wished he wouldn’t because all he wanted to do was flop forward and just lean against Morgan's body as the pain in his face passed.

He didn’t, of course, and Hotch joined them a few seconds later.

“Reid, are you okay?”

“He’s bleeding, Hotch!” Morgan snapped.

“I’m fine.” Reid said, feeling the cut on his cheek where the metal of the cuffs had caught him stinging. He knew he was going to have an impressive bruise to match. “He didn’t like that I suddenly stopped being scared. He knows he's going to jail for the rest of life, he's gloating. He's going to be descriptive, he's going to recount the rapes and torture in vivid detail to distress people. He's enjoying it, he feels powerful even though he's been caught. He hit me to scare me. He's got nothing to lose, which means he might let something slip. Send me back in on my own.”

“Reid,” Morgan said firmly. Reid shrugged out of his hold.

“He was responding to me.”

“He was playing with you.”

“We’re running out of time,” Reid reasoned, the disorientation gone, replaced by the ache and sting of the wound and blow. “”He’s not going to just talk, he knows he has nothing to gain by cooperating, he won't confess unless it's a power move, unless it's more gratifying to do it. This is worth a shot.”

“He’s right,” Hotch said. “We’re not going to find Gregory Taylor without York giving us something.”

“Even something he doesn’t mean to,” Rossi added.

Ten minutes later Reid returned to the interrogation room. He had let the trickle of blood from the cut on his cheek dry, and hadn’t wiped it away even though it was pinching at his skin; York was a sadist, and he would delight in seeing the injury he had caused. Hopefully it would help them get something from him.

“Now this is no fair,” York grinned as Reid sat opposite him, “sending you in alone when I’m cuffed like this.”

He rattled the cuffs, where they were secured around the metal crossbeam between the two legs of the table.

“Mr York,” Reid said, deliberately leaning one elbow on the table and holding his neck, the other rested on the tabletop, “there are no more reasons for you to not to tell us where Gregory Taylor is. You’re never going to know what happens to him.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” York grinned. “You’ll never find him.”

Reid waited. He knew if he was going to get anything out of the unsub he would have to start it, and Reid would have to tread subtly.

“You never did answer my question earlier,” York said, eyes raking over Reid’s damaged face, “whether you’re a fag or not.”

“Does it make a difference to you?” Reid asked, very aware of very slight change in the man’s breathing as he surveyed the injury he’d inflicted.

“All the difference in the world.” York gave a low laugh. “The second boy I ever had, what was his name? Luke, I think. He said he was straight. And that’s what made him so damn great.”

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Morgan frowned.

“Did he say ‘second boy’?”

“Yes,” Hotch nodded.

“Why would he say that, specify ‘boy’ instead of ‘second one’? The rest of his language since we’ve had him in hasn’t been that gendered, he talked about them like they were things.”

“Unless there are female victims we don’t know about.” Hotch nodded, realising what Morgan was getting at. “The profile indicated he wouldn't identify as gay or bisexual, that the choice of male victims was rooted in misogyny, that girls or women weren't worth his attention. Do you think Reid noticed?”

“Let’s hope so,” Morgan said, looking back through the glass.

“The second time I fucked him,” York continued, a grin spreading across his face, “he got off. I lubed up that time, and he ended up getting off. He cried like baby. It wasn’t the only time he did, either. It broke him better than cutting him up.”

Reid recalled the case file of the second body, remembered how much less mutilation there had been than subsequent bodies.

“I had him about five days. At the end, there was this little moment,” York gestured, holding his thumb and forefinger close together, “just a flash, when he knew I was about to kill him, where he was relieved. He was glad to die. But they all die scared.”

“Was it always males?” Reid posed, carefully keeping his face from reacting to the story the unsub told. York wanted a reaction, and Reid was trying to decide what to give him.

York looked a little surprised that the agent would even ask such a question. He sat back in his seat, taking a long breath in through his nose.

“It started with girls,” he confirmed. “Girls are so much easier to take. But they’re disappointing; girls get told, from the day they’re born, to expect to be attacked, raped and killed,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re taught what they have to do to avoid these things, and most times they’re blamed when they happen to them. Girls are conditioned to stop fighting, to give up, to accept it. So, I tried a boy, and it was so much better. Boys fight so much longer. They have this ingrained idea that’s the opposite of girls, this idea that these things never happen to them. When they can’t believe it, they fight it. And the fight is oh so good.”

In the adjoining room, Hotch hadn’t noticed Prentiss slipping in.

“How fucked up is it that he’s right?” she muttered.

“He’s not going to give us anything,” Morgan said, although he was still staring through into the interrogation room. “He’s just messing with Reid.”

“Reid’s quite capable of handling himself,” Rossi pointed out. Morgan pursed his lips in annoyance. He knew that. And he knew he shouldn’t care this much, that he should trust Reid to do his job. He couldn’t read Reid’s face because he was mostly in profile; the table was angled so the profiler’s back was mostly to them; the focus was on York’s face and body language.

“The ones that don’t accidentally enjoy it can be just as good, though,” York explained, leaning in close as his restraints would allow. Reid didn’t move. “They’ll do whatever you want; bark like a dog, moan like bitch, ride you like a whore, if it’s the option instead of hurting them. And no matter how many times you lie, how many times you promise not to burn them if they get on their knees and suck you off but still burn them anyway, they always do it. Because their brain convinces them that this time you promise it you might keep it.”

Reid swallowed, and it seemed so loud in the small room. He didn’t break eye contact, couldn’t, because he was watching as York’s pupils dilated; he was becoming aroused. If he let him talk, there might be something, some clue as to where Gregory Taylor was being kept.

“Number three was the worst. Colby,” York was smiling, almost conversational if it weren’t for the hoarse undertone to his voice. “It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. I kept him too long. Two months. Can you believe that? Way too long. He wasn’t even human by the end of it. It wasn’t any good at the end, it was like taking batteries out of a doll that had needed them changed for a while. The rest of them were so alive at the moment I took their lives. The first month was great, don’t get me wrong; he was such a fighter. But it was really anti-climatic at the end. There’s only so much you can hurt someone before they lose their soul. Breaking them is great, but what happened with Colby was so far beyond broken.”

Reid almost flinched when he felt something brush his leg.

York grinned at him as he stroked his calf through the fabric of his slacks with a bare foot. He didn’t think his team on the other side of the glass could see this action; he was pretty sure they’d stop it if they did. Reid tried not to do anything they could read; it wasn’t that he wanted to let York touch him, at all, but if he reacted he might shut down completely.

“Kieran, the one before Gregory,” York went on, stroking slowly over Reid's calf, “he was my favourite. He had this lovely white skin that looked so good when I opened him up.”

His foot went higher, grazing up Reid’s leg.

“Big brown eyes like yours, looked great when he cried.”

The foot moved past Reid’s knee.

“Let me out of these cuffs and I’ll tell you where the boy is.”

“You won’t,” Reid said. York smiled.

“You’re right,” he nodded. “Not quite yet. But if you leave this room,” he said pointedly, bare foot inching along the inside of the agent’s thigh, “I’ll definitely never tell.”

Reid knew he was inferring more than his request for Reid to stay in the interrogation room; it was a veiled assertion that he shouldn’t draw attention to what was going on underneath the table.

York's foot had reached his groin.

“David, number four, do you want to hear about him?”

Reid didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, but they had nothing else to go on; listening to this sexual sadist reminisce about his crimes wasn’t even a sure way for them to make him reveal where the last missing boy was, but what else did they have?

“He was loud. Really loud. No surprise really, considering what I did...” York chuckled.

He rubbed his foot over Reid’s groin, and he had to stop a sound of discomfort from sounding out of his mouth. If his team realised what was happening and pulled him out they would never find out where the boy was.

“If you tell us where Gregory Taylor is-” Reid started.

“What? What are you going to offer me?” York pressed harder with his foot. “You’re not giving me what I want right now,” he said cryptically.

On the other side of the mirror, Morgan turned to Hotch.

“What does he mean, not giving him what he wants?”

“I don't know. Hopefully Reid can figure it out.”

York continued to rub his crotch through his slacks. Reid had a fair idea what he wanted. He blinked a little too slowly. York’s face stretched out in a grin.

“Gregory is going to remember me for the rest of his life,” York said.

Reid’s grasp on his neck shifted. That wasn’t right. That didn’t make sense. York wasn’t careless with his words, he was intelligent and eloquent. Things ticked and whirred in Reid’s head, until they snapped into place; he understood. He knew what he had to do, what York wanted.

Reid shifted a little in his seat, completely innocent to an onlooker, but aware that doing so pushed his groin into York's groping foot. York laughed darkly and began talking again.

“Tommy, the first boy. They say you always remember your first...”

Reid couldn't block him out, but he had to shift his focus. He couldn’t pay attention to the words to achieve what he knew he had to do. York was arrogant, operating on assumption that for however terrible what had done was, it was still impressive, that it was still something that other men secretly wanted, or thought about. He wanted the attention. He wanted affirmation.

Reid concentrated instead on the pressure of his groin, focused on the motion. He attempted to dismantle the association between the physical act being performed non-consensually upon him and the serial killer sitting opposite him, talking at him. His gaze lost focused and he stared through York's face, letting the control his brain had been attempting to hold over his body unravel. Unconnected thoughts flittered across his consciousness, random imagery as his brain struggled with being instructed to slow.

It was a memory that made it happen. A memory of his flesh pressed against dark skin, of the thrum of tense muscle below his hands, of stretching force contained in tight heat.

Reid’s cock stirred and began to harden.

York’s eyebrows danced upwards a little but he didn’t stop regaling the agent with the recollection of the first boy he’d tortured and killed, and his foot ran along the increasingly stiff length.

Reid continued to stare right through, kept his brain from rebelling and resisting. He had to let this happen. Now the physical process was set in motion Reid concentrated most of his effort on keeping his mind blank; he did not want another memory, a good memory, swimming into the forefront of his mind and being used by his brain to encourage what was happening. Those memories were not tools, they were private, they were special.

The rest of his effort went into keeping his breathing even. If his team knew, they would stop him, and he wouldn’t be able to live down the shame. York’s foot pressed harder, moved faster. Reid wanted it to stop, wanted to move away from the invasion of his space and get as far away as possible, but he knew he couldn’t. His perception of time was skewed; it could have been minutes, but it felt so much longer.

York’s foot stopped abruptly. Reid’s groin throbbed at the lost contact and he let a tiny shaking breath out between his lips. He wanted curl into a ball right there and disappear.

“There’s a cabin five miles north of the old railway bridge,” he said in a satisfied tone, looking Reid up and down. “Once the path disappears, there’s a paper birch every three hundred yards until you get there. You’ll need bolt cutters, and paramedics.”

On the opposite side of the glass, everyone was suddenly at attention.

“Morgan,” Hotch said, “you heard him.” he nodded to the local detective, who quickly left. “Go.”

“Okay,” Morgan said, but he didn’t move. He continued to watch York through the glass. He was sure he had just seen him move his leg back to his side of the table and slip it back into his shoe, even though he hadn’t noticed him shoeless in the first place. Presently Reid exited the interrogation room, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“He just told you?” Prentiss asked sceptically.

“I knew he was going to tell me,” Reid said. “As soon as he said that Gregory would remember him for the rest of his life. You don’t talk about the rest of a life if it’s going to be over in a few days.”

“Morgan, go,” Hotch said firmly. He spared a glance at Reid, eyes raking up and down him before he left.

“Well done, Reid,” Rossi said. Reid was rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I’m just-” he didn’t finish the sentence, instead leaving the room swiftly. He hoped it didn’t register as strange to his team; they had heard everything too from a distance, had listened to York talk about rape and torture and murder in detail; Reid being shaken was normal, right?. It would be more worrying if he didn’t need some time to gather himself. They didn't know what he'd done to get the information they needed.

---

Within an hour and a half, Gregory Taylor was found alive. He was beaten so badly he couldn’t walk, and the two huge gashed to his face would require thirty stitches between them. They would scar.

York giving up his location made sense then; Gregory would never be allowed to forget what happened to him. York had made sure of that, and he would have that knowledge for the rest of his life, even if he spent it incarcerated in solitary.

They had realised that York had planned that to happen as soon as he was aware the authorities were closing in on him; had marked the teenager permanently, and had intended to divulge his location all along so he could survive, and serve as a reminder of York’s legacy.

Reid didn’t talk to anyone as things concluded, and when they boarded the jet to return to Virginia he headed straight for the couch, facing inwards and went to sleep. The team shared sympathetic looks; they all had cases that left them like that.

Morgan was replaying what he had witnessed through the one-way glass in his head when Prentiss, sat opposite him, spoke.

“I keep thinking about what Gregory’s friend said.”

“Hmm?” Morgan sounded, looking up from untangling the wire of his headphones.

“About him thinking he was questioning if he was gay, or bisexual,” she elaborated. “It’ll be awful. If he realises later that he's bisexual, or gay, even, and he’s brave enough to come out in a town like that, everyone is going to think it’s because of what he went through. And he’s gonna wonder if that’s true, too, because I don’t see anyone in a town like that telling him any different.”

Morgan didn’t say anything. She couldn't possible know how close in Morgan's chest it was hitting.

---

“Reid.”

Reid closed his eyes briefly, and didn’t look around.

“What, Morgan?” he said shortly.

“Hey, kid.” Morgan stepped closer in the empty bullpen. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Reid said folding his arms over his chest and turning on the spot to face Morgan in the empty bullpen.

“You sure? You don’t look fine, dude.”

“Well it wasn’t exactly an easy case,” Reid said dismissively, looking away.

“I know.” Morgan nodded. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“When you were talking to York in interrogation,” he said carefully, surveying Reid’s face, “he... had his shoe off. You realised that, right?”

Reid didn’t say anything. Why did Morgan, of all people, have to notice that? Why did it have to be Morgan who knew?

“And his foot,” Morgan said slowly, finally vocalising his suspicion in response to Reid’s blank look. “Where was his foot, Reid?”

“Where do you think?” the snapped, gaze flickering to meet Morgan’s defiantly. Morgan baulked.

“Reid. Why would you do that? I mean, why would you let him do that?”

“I didn’t really have much of a choice.”

“You said you knew he was going to tell you.”

“He was already groping me when I worked that out,” Reid hissed, casting around to make sure the bullpen was still empty.

Groping. Morgan felt a sickening jolt in his stomach.

“Reid, why?” Desperate anger was beginning to creep into his hushed voice. “Why would you let an unsub do that to you, if you knew he was going to tell us where the kid was?”

“What do you think would have happened if I left when I knew? He’d of told us, sure. But the police weren’t going to wait however long it would take him. He could have drawn it out for at least two days before Gregory died from dehydration. He would have suffered. I did what I had to, to get him the medical attention he needed.”

“So you let him assault you?” Morgan asked. “Because that’s what it was.”

“I consented,” Reid said, even thought he didn’t quite believe the words.

“Coercion isn’t consent,” Morgan said, voice suddenly thickening with emotion. “Damn it, it’s not, Reid.”

“I actively participated, man, I-” Reid started, then shook his head.

“What do you mean, you participated?” Morgan asked incredulously.

“Morgan, I don’t want to talk to you about this," he said, reaching for his messenger bag from his desk.

“Reid—”

“No!” he said, turning away.

“Reid, c’mon-” Morgan reached out, fingertips brushing his shoulder. Reid whirled around, his face coming within a few inches of Morgan’s, staring him down.

“I got an erection. Okay?” he said darkly. “Happy? That’s how I participated. It worked.”

“Reid,” Morgan breathed, face softening with concern, putting a few more inches between them so he could look at Reid’s face. “Reid, how many sexual assault cases have you seen, read about, where somebody’s body reacted to physical stimulation? It doesn’t equal consent, and you know that.”

“It was the only way,” Reid said, shoulders so tense he was shaking a little. “It was the only way to get him to tell me. He thought I was fascinated, that his actions, the ultimate expression of his, masculinity was so powerful and righteous that I wanted to hear every detail. He wanted to be affirmed that people are just as sick as him, deep down.”

Morgan shook his head. This was wrong. This job couldn’t make someone he cared about do that. He knew exactly what it was like to be coerced into sex , made to feel he couldn’t say no, and the idea of a job he loved so much doing that to another person made him feel sick.

Reid interpreted his friend’s shaking head as disapproval, disappointment, and he slung his bag over his shoulder and slipped around the broader man.

“Reid,” he said, but the man didn’t look around. “Reid, c’mon. Do you need a ride home?”

Reid stopped, shoulders slumping before he turned around slowly.

“Don’t, man.”

“What?”

“I told you last time, we can’t do that again.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Morgan said, laughing a little nervously.

“So you’re saying if you gave me a ride home,” Reid started, the apparent intrigue of his tone laced with something thready and near-broken, “you’d turn me down if I asked you to come up to my apartment again? You’d turn me down, right? Since I made it clear last time I wasn’t okay with a casual physical relationship, and you’ve just scolded me for essentially prostituting myself to break a case? You’d turn me down, right?”

“Reid, I wasn’t calling you a prostitute.”

“It sure sounds like it,” Reid spat. “First it’s ‘how could you let him do that’, then it’s ‘he coerced you’. Make up your mind, Morgan; do you think I’m a whore or not?”

“Reid.” Saying the man’s name wasn’t calming him at all. Morgan shook his head, because he had no idea what he could do to ease the man’s distress, no idea to fix the damaged he'd caused. “I don’t think you’re a whore, kid.”

“No? But you ask me if I want a ride, and we both know what that’s code for now, even after I told you I don’t want this, because you want it to happen.”

Reid rubbed a hand down over his mouth and jaw, hard enough that he felt the damaged skin of the cut of his face separate again.

“I feel dirty.” Reid gave a damaged laugh. “I didn’t have a choice, man.”

Morgan took a few steps towards him, who flinched and rubbed at the corners of his eyes with his fingertips.

“I know, Reid. I know it wasn't your fault. I just hate that that you had to do that. I hate that you didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t judging you, I’m sorry. I was just shocked.”

This assertion seemed to calm Reid a little, as he crossed his arms loosely over this thin chest. He tried to smile, but it faltered and he let it slip away.

“Kid, let me give you a ride home,” Morgan said kindly. “I promise I won’t come up, even if you ask.” Reid nodded, turning and letting Morgan fall into step beside him.

---

“I’m sorry,” Morgan said, glancing away from the road to look at Reid for a second.

“What for?”

“Going off on you about, uh, being gay? I was a tool. I just...man, I don't know,” he said weakly. “It's just, I'm... I'm straight.”

Reid turned his face towards him.

“I’m not.”

Morgan glanced at him again.

“Are you...?”

“I don’t know. And it’s frustrating the hell out of me,” Reid murmured.

“How hard can it be?” Morgan said. “If you like women you’re straight, if you like men you’re gay, if you like both you’re bi, if you don’t like any, you’re, what? Asexual, right?”

“It’s really not that simple,” Reid gave a laugh. “I’ve been reading.”

“No surprise.”

“Gender theory, academia on human sexuality. It’s not simple when you’re not sure.”

“Why do you have to worry?” Morgan asked. “Can’t you just, y’know, do your thing?” he teased gently.

“Can't you?”

Morgan didn’t say anything; why did it feel so impossible? To consider that he could be wrong about himself, that he didn't know himself? Reid was doing it, why couldn't he? Because he was straight, he had to be. Buford didn't get to take away who was, his influence did not get to poison him.

Morgan stopped the car outside Reid’s apartment building, and leaned back in his seat with his wrist resting on the steering wheel.

“Thanks.” Reid said, slipping his seatbelt off.

“Reid, are you gonna be okay?” Morgan asked.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The last time we had a hard case...” Morgan trailed off.

“I’m not going to take drugs.” Reid sounded offended, but Morgan didn’t apologize for asking; he remembered how desperate the man had looked before the first time they had sex, when it had been a choice between having sex or getting high. He couldn't lose his friend that way again.

“If you need company...”

“Company, Morgan?” Reid gave a disbelieving laugh.

“Not like that,” Morgan said. “We could watch a movie, or just talk.”

“I'm meant to believe that's all that's gonna happen, Morgan? You didn't want to stay and talk the last three times, you couldn't get out of my apartment fast enough.”

“C'mon now.”

“No! Contrary to whatever grandiose delusion you've been operating under, your magical heterosexual penis did not in fact save me from doing drugs. I am clean, and I stayed clean. We're friends, we had sex, and that is fine, and then I drew a very reasonable boundary about not having sex with you again because I do not know if I can have sex with you without that impacting our friendship, which you clearly do not value because you are still pushing it, even after everything. I am done, man. I'm done.”

Morgan didn't try and stop him leaving the car. He watched him walk up the steps to the door of his apartment building, waited until he was no longer in sight, and then let his head drop back against the seat.

How had he fucked this all up so badly?

He sighed and revved the engine, reminding himself against that it was all simple, and he didn't need to think about it, and he was straight and Reid was his friend.

He was a liar.

“The truly scary thing about undiscovered lies is that they have a greater capacity to diminish us than exposed ones. They erode our strength, our self-esteem, our very foundation.” – Cheryl Hughes

Chapter Text

“When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.” - Sylvia Plath

Morgan didn’t realise how much he'd been absently tipping his glass until it toppled over, spreading beer across the table. Garcia made a shocked sound and flapped her hands as the dregs of beer poured over the tabletop, trying to stem the tide with napkins.

“We wasting drinks now?”

Morgan looked out across the bar. Reid was lifting his own drink to his mouth and smiling at the man opposite him. He’d noticed them as they came in, but Reid and what was obviously his date hadn’t noticed him or Garcia. He had felt a very juvenile stab of jealousy, and Garcia had squee’d and cooed appreciatively.

“Earth to Derek,” Garcia said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. She followed his gaze, and if Morgan hadn't been so distracted, he might have noticed the quirk of her eyebrow, the soft “oh” of her mouth.

Spencer Reid didn’t date. Morgan knew his friend didn’t date, but here he was, and it was clearly a date. The other guy was slim and olive-skinned with tousled black hair, and he was leaning with his elbows on the table, clearly engaged in whatever Reid was saying.

“Did you know my baby genius is gay?” Garcia asked.

“He’s not gay,” Morgan said a little too quickly.

“Bi, then?” she offered, smiling cheekily. “Pansexual maybe, or oh, sapiosexual, there it is! Attracted to intelligence. Or maybe that's more the other guy. Any which way, he's on my team now. As much as I’d love to share this exciting development, I don’t think we should mention this to everyone else, eh?”

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed dumbly, to try to shake that the jealousy had given wake to him just feeling damn sad about it, which felt even more pathetic.

“I mean Reid might not be ready to declare anything yet," Garcia went on. “And it looks like a first date.”

“How can you tell?” Morgan asked, dragging his eyes away from the pale man across the room with his companion.

“Well I’m no profiler, but the hot Mediterranean guy isn’t touching him. So they’ve probably not even gone to first base. There’s no little flirty touches.”

“Not Latino?”

“C'mon Derek, that's a European. They don't make floppy haired boys like that here since Don Bluth stopped providing.”

Morgan had noticed the lack of physical contact, despite the obvious body language, but the fact that Reid was so calm in what was clearly more than platonic chatter made Morgan’s guts writhe. He didn’t spare any thought to identify what that emotion was; he didn’t want to know.

Garcia turned her attention back to him, interpreting his feigned disinterest as boredom, but she kept sparing glances to check how their teammate was doing. It wasn’t until Morgan was considering trying to convince Garcia to go somewhere else for another drink that she nudged his hand and met his eyes, grinning excitedly.

“They spotted us. They look like they’re leaving, but they’re coming this way.”

With an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, Morgan looked around. She was right; Reid and his companion were making a beeline for them through the bar.

“Hey there junior G man,” Garcia greeted. Morgan did his best to look passively interested.

“Hi,” Reid said awkward, meeting Morgan’s gaze for just a second before he focused in on Garcia instead.

“Who’s your friend?”

“This is Alejandro.” He gestured to him, lacking the finesse of pronouncing the name with an accent, and the newcomer flashed a dazzling smile and offered a firm handshake to Morgan and softer one to Garcia. Damn, he was handsome.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, his Spanish accent almost melodic. “Spencer says you are friends from work?”

Morgan’s stomach did a funny little flip as the stranger called Reid by his first name. He couldn’t actually remember ever addressing him directly by that name.

“If I didn’t trust you, Garcia, I’d say you were spying on me,” Reid teased.

“Just a happy coincidence.” She grinned. “But look like all the recruiting efforts I was planning to get you on my team were wasted.”

Reid and Alejandro both laughed, and Morgan forced a little titter out, covering the awkwardness by taking a drink from the remains of his beer.

“So, having a good first date?” she asked. Reid smiled at Alejandro, his pink tongue subtly snaking out to wet his lips.

“Yeah,” he nodded. Alejandro smiled charmingly at him. “But we should go, we’re going for.. coffee.” he kept his eyes still on Garcia, not daring to catch Morgan’s eye.

Garcia grinned wider and wiggled her eyebrows. Morgan’s stomach clenched uncomfortably and he used all his control not to let it show.

“You boys have fun,” she encouraged. “Nice to meet you, Alejandro.”

He nodded his goodbye and Reid gave a characteristic little wave, and others watched them go. Before they reached the door, they witnessed Alejandro putting a hand gently on the small of Reid’s back to reassure him past gaggles of people, and there was no noticeable adverse reaction from Reid to that touch.

Morgan had no idea why it was satisfying to imaging himself grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting it painfully to remove it from Reid’s body. He did not like that thought.

“Reid’s gonna get some,” Garcia sing-songed, and Morgan looked around a little too fast.

“What?”

“Oh, c’mon. Coffee?”

“Reid likes coffee,” Morgan pointed out. Garcia practically cackled.

“When was the last time a woman asked you back to her place for coffee and you actually had just coffee?”

---

“So, we’re actually having coffee,” Reid observed as he sat on a stool in Alejandro’s apartment kitchen, watching him make their drinks.

“You thought we were coming here for something else?”

Reid didn’t say anything, merely shifted in his seat and smiled awkwardly.

“You have not dated much, have you?” Alejandro asked. It didn't feel mean spirited; Alejandro seemed like a genuinely nice guy.

“No,” Reid confirmed. “I haven’t ever dated in a conventional sense.”

“And long may non-conventional rule,” Alejandro said. “I said earlier I am only in America six more weeks. It is a shame to meet you towards the end of my time here. But,” he continued, as he set coffees down between them, “I would like to spend some of that time with you.”

“You would?”

“Si.” He took a sip from his own coffee. “You are very interesting, Spencer, and handsome. Whatever you’d like these weeks to be, I will be happy with. Just to talk, coffee,” he gestured his mug, “or something more.”

Reid nodded his head a little, processing the information as he sipped the coffee. It was really good coffee.

“Alejandro,” Reid started, “are you gay?”

“I am,” he paused to think, rolling his wrist in gesture, “how would you say, multisexual? I have had lovers who are men, lovers who are women, lovers whose genders were not so simple.”

“Right,” Reid nodded, his brain comparing the statement to reading he’d been doing on gender and sexuality. “I’m not sure what my sexuality is.”

“And you do not like not being sure,” Alejandro said, perceptively.

“No, I guess I don’t.”

“I cannot help you so simply as telling you, but I can be an experience. Perhaps that would be something you need.”

Reid nodded again, and sipped at his coffee. In much simpler terminology than he would employ, Alejandro was giving him permission to experiment. Their time was finite, the temporary nature of any arrangement or relationship already established. While some might read that as a whirlwind romance or fling, to Reid it felt practical and rather safe.

But really, wasn't Alejandro offering to be something he needed not all that different to what Morgan had offered?

“I’d like a sexual relationship,” Reid said suddenly. Alejandro didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“I would like that, too,” he agreed. “Spencer, have you been intimate with men before?”

“One,” he said honestly.

“Can I ask you, did you enjoy it?”

“I did,” Reid nodded, setting his empty cup down on the counter. “I’m not,” he laughed a little embarrassed chuckle, “very sexually experienced, at least not with other people. I could be called keen, though.”

“Experience is only one part of enjoying what sex can offer you,” Alejandro said, putting his own cup down.

Reid’s tongue crept out to wet his lips, eyes drinking in the lines of muscle on the man’s hands and bare forearms. He was slender, but not so much as Reid, much more lean muscle. His skin was a rich warm tone, quite inviting, and the dusting of fine dark hair on his arms made Reid feel warm, and made him wonder if Alejandro was hairy elsewhere. He filed that away, that new awareness of something he desired. When Reid blinked himself out of his study, Alejandro’s eyes were on him in a rather intense way.

“Would you like to stay tonight, Spencer?” he asked, rich tones of his voice making Reid swallow.

This was what he wanted. Reid wanted to be able to discover, to test, to explore his sexual identity. He had already worked out he was attracted to Alejandro’s physical attributes and to his personality, and he had managed to compartmentalise thoughts of Derek Morgan to a small space in the back of his mind. As much as he tried it seemed impossible to remove them entirely, so he had to be satisfied with their minimisation as he nervously ran a hand through his hair, watching Alejandro’s patient face.

“I’d like to stay.”

---

“You know,” Garcia said, as she walked arm-in-arm down the street with Morgan in the warm night air, “you shouldn’t be so pissed at Reid.”

“What?” he said, his step faltering a little. She couldn’t possibly know.

“Look, I know you’re annoyed he didn’t tell you he’s not straight,” she said, and internally Morgan felt relief wash through him. “I don’t think it’s because he doesn’t trust you. You’re his best friend. These things are just confusing. The world doesn’t make it easy to get to know yourself, especially if you’re any kind of same-gender-lovin’.”

“I guess.”

“No need to guess, it’s a fact,” Garcia said. “I’ve always been the girl with the gay male friends. I went to prom with a gay boy. It’s not like I didn’t know; I guess I kind of liked being everyone’s beard. It made their lives easier, even though it sucks they needed that safety net in the first place. Then I realised I like everyone in college, which was an easier time than realising that in high school. It’s not like he thinks you’d judge him,” she reassured. “Would you?”

“What? Of course not,” he said. “You know I don’t have any problems with gay people.” He felt rather guilty saying it, because it only seemed to be true when it wasn’t related to Reid. He’s been entirely shitty to Reid about sexuality issues.

And yourself.

“Good,” she nodded. “He’s gonna need our support.”

“Why?”

“Well, if things get serious he might want to come out,” she reasoned.

“The rest of the team aren’t gonna care, it—”

“It doesn’t matter how supportive your family or friends are,” she said patiently, “it’s not easy. You’re still coming out into a hostile world. I mean, remember Hancock County?”

“Yeah.” He breathed. It had been two weeks since he'd watched Reid interview York. The cut on Reid’s cheek was now just a thin scab; it still made Morgan feel physically sick to be reminded every day of what Reid had gone through to conclude that case.

“Hopefully this will make him happy again,” she said, a little sadly.

“Huh? What do you mean ‘again’?”

“He’s been a bit out of sorts for a couple of months,” she said. “Ever since that case in North Dakota, really.” She looked to Morgan, noticed the confusion on his face. “Not on cases. I just see you guys quite a bit when you’re not on hours, you know, in the mornings or when you stay to finish paperwork. He’s been doing that more since that case. I mean, that’s not strange for you guys,” she said, obviously noticing the concern on Morgan’s face, “I see you cycle through phases like that. It’s no surprise, considering the job. And things always get better, it’s just not nice to know there’s really nothing I can do. I think maybe if Reid’s getting comfortable in his own skin, it might help him pass through the down phase.”

Morgan nodded his agreement, although his insides were writhing. Was it self-involved to wonder if he could be the reason Reid’s mood had changed? He didn’t want to cause that. He had never meant for that.

---

Reid couldn’t have Morgan. Or, he shouldn’t. He knew that technically, he could have sex with him. Morgan had made it clear he was up for that, with no strings attached. But Reid also knew he had more than platonic feelings for the man, and trying to maintain a sexual relationship without forming attachments which would never be reciprocated was foolish; it would end up hurting him, and possibly ruining a friendship.

He didn't want to lose his best friend.

Alejandro was a welcome distraction from the process of moving on from those feelings. He had kissed Reid gently in the kitchen, to test his reaction. When it had been favourable the kiss had developed, deepening and strengthening. Alejandro had permitted Reid to undress him when he asked, and he had done so slowly after they had moved to the bedroom.

He had clearly enjoyed letting Reid study his form, long fingers stroking over the press of bones and definition of muscles. The warmth of his skin tone, the darker tone of his nipples, the subtle definition of abdominal and pectoral muscles. A dusting of dark hair from his navel to his crotch and along both long, legs. He had a tattoo of a sun on his hip and Reid had traced around it with a finger, delaying the moment he studied the man’s crotch.

Eventually he did of course, the same long-fingered hands touching him, looking at his proportions and shape as the man’s cock hardened from the ministration; slightly darker than the rest of his body, an intact foreskin and an average length with an average girth. His public hair was dark as the hair on his head. An altogether very pleasing thing, Reid thought.

Every moment of the relaxed study of Alejandro's form was a fight to stop his mind conjuring up comparisons to Morgan’s body; the broader shape, the darker skin, the differing texture of hair, the more defined muscles, the longer, thicker shaft of his cock. All new data points, all new experiences to collate.

Alejandro caught him under the chin and lifted, bringing their lips close together. Was there something about Reid that made men do that do him? First Morgan and then Alejandro, fingers on his chin to turn his face up. While he wondered, he didn't mind.

Strong but gentle hands mirrored the action being graced to him, taking Reid’s cock in hand. It was relaxed, easy, romantic as Reid stroked Alejandro to completion, marvelling at the cry of release that sounded like a melody and the spill of semen over the back of his hand. Reid reached his climax under Alejandro's hand just a few minutes later, pressing his hips into the contact and trying to bite back his loud moan.

As Reid noted the rate of his breathing post-orgasm, he didn’t notice Alejandro reaching into the bedside to find a damp wipe to clean away the traces of semen until he startled a little a the contact. He muttered a small ‘thank you’ and Alejandro smiled at him, lowering his mouth for a kiss. He returned the kiss lazily, sated and relaxed against the warmth of the other man’s body.

“You still want to stay?”

Reid nodded. Alejandro took it has a cue and reached to pull the bed sheet over them, cool against their hot skin. In that moment nothing seemed more pleasant to Reid than to linger together after sex. A new novelty.

Alejandro turned off the bedside lamp and settled down on his back, Reid resting in the curve of his side with his arm around his chest. He continued to kiss Reid in the dark, fingers tracing along the thinner man’s arm in a comforting way. This was nice, Reid decided, very nice. Perhaps one of the most pleasant human interactions he had experienced in his life. There had been a fulfilling sexual conduct, romantic affection, and now a relaxing, intimate atmosphere.

His traitorous brain, just a little, still wanted it to be Morgan who kissed his forehead as he fell asleep.

“There’s nothing quite so humbling as thinking you’re completely over someone, then realizing you’re not even close.” - Brian Strause

Chapter Text

"The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open." - Chuck Palahniuk

Reid knew Garcia was going to corner him as soon as she got the chance. In an unusual turn, their Monday was not as busy as it usual was, and she got her chance after lunch. She pushed Reid down into an empty chair, and offered her candy bowl to him. Reid took a sherbet lemon a little hesitantly, watching her eyeing him as she sat down.

“So,” she said.

“So.”

He wasn’t sure pretending he didn’t know what was coming was going to make it easier, but that’s what he did, sucking the sweet into his mouth and sitting back in his chair.

“How did you meet the Spanish man-dish, then?”

“On my lunch break in the LGBT section of a book store on Thursday.”

“Well I suppose that gives everyone a higher chance of the cute person that catches their eye actually playing for the appropriate team.” She winked. “And?”

“I was looking at several anthologies of gay male experience, and he pointed one out and said that it had problematic elements of erasure and positioning bisexuality as a purely transitory period or a defence mechanism rather than declaring ‘full’ homosexuality.”

“Right,” she said, “so he told you a book wasn’t worth buying. Then?”

“Well I had seven books, and said I looked like I was going to be busy, and because words tend to come out before I can decide if they’re a good idea or not I was explaining about being able to read twenty thousand words a minute, and then he asked me if I wanted to go for coffee with him.”

“Just like that?” She looked surprised, maybe even impressed.

“Yeah.”

“And you said yes?”

“Actually no, because I didn’t have time, so he suggested going for a drink that evening, and then I said yes. He seemed interested in what I had to say.” Reid felt himself blushing.

“And why wouldn’t he be, angel?” she said kindly. “I bet he thought you were way cute, too.”

He could feel the blush increasing; he wasn’t entirely comfortable in his body, and the idea that someone was aesthetically attracted to him seemed alien. Even when Morgan called him ‘pretty’, he knew it was affectionate but he wasn’t entirely convinced it was sincere.

“So, did you go back to his place for coffee?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes.”

“Was it good coffee?”

“If you’re asking if we had sex—”

“I am.”

“Then that depends what sexual interaction you deem to be ‘sex’.”

“Ooh, boy wonder got some! Good for you, Mister Brain. Are you seeing him again?”

“Actually I said I’d give him a call, since my schedule changes so much and he said he has a flexible availability.”

He did not mention that Alejandro would only be in the country for a few more weeks. Garcia wouldn't have judged him for a short term relationship, but he couldn't stand the thought she might pity him somehow.

“What are you waiting for?” Garcia grinned. “Call him! You’re gonna get off at a reasonable time today.”

“Isn’t it too soon?” he asked, before he could consider how pathetic it made him feel to be seeking dating advice as a grown man.

“No way.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, sounds like you already got freaky on the first date.” She grinned, but it faltered at his uncomfortable shifting in his seat. “That’s not a bad thing, Reid, we do not slut-shame in this office,” she added quickly. “I just meant it’s not too soon just because it’s been a few days. If you want a second date tonight, call him. You want to see him again, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Call him. Go on, call him now. Meet up after work,” she encouraged, smiling widely at him. He still felt embarrassed as he fished his phone of out his pocket, focusing on it even though he could feel Garcia’s eager gaze on him.

“I don’t even know his surname,” he murmured as he found the man’s number and hit dial.

“Hola, Spencer.” Alejandro’s voice on the line made some warm feeling curl in Reid’s chest.

“Hi. Uhh, hi, Alejandro.” He faltered, meeting Garcia’s eyes. She smiled and nodded her encouragement. “I was, er, wondering if you’re free this evening? My day’s actually been more structured than I imagined it would be, I should finish work at a normal time-” Garcia was giving him a look, clearly telling him to stop babbling.

“Would you like to go to dinner?” Alejandro asked, his voice tinkling with amusement apparently at Reid’s awkwardness.

“Dinner?” he repeated. Garcia grinned and clapped quietly.

“Si.”

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“Oh, I-” he could list hundreds of places locally to dine out, but listing his preference might not account for what the other man liked. “Maybe.. Thai?” he said, not wanting to keep hesitating because he was becoming increasingly embarrassed by his lack of finesse.

“Have you been to the Blue Elephant?” Alejandro asked. “It’s new, I think.”

“Actually it used to be called the Diamond Jasmine but the business moved on to new premises, and the new business that moved into the building just happened to be another Thai-cuisine restaurant.”

“Would you like to go?” the other man asked, seemingly unfazed by Reid’s ramble of information.

“Yes.”

“Say, eight o’clock?”

”Okay.”

“Bien. I look forward to seeing you, Spencer.”

Garcia was grinning at him in a way that unsettled him, and he kept the phone at his ear even after they’d said their goodbyes, just to try and gather his bearings. Once he took it away, Garcia flapped excitedly.

“My little genius has a date!” she said happily. “Wine him, dine him, then bonk his brains out!”

“Bonk?” Reid spluttered, almost dropping his phone.

“Uh-huh. Don’t tell me you call it ‘copulating’ or ‘sexual intercourse’, even when you’re doing it.”

“Actually I just call it sex,” he said, while remembering the first time he’d been with Morgan some months ago, when he’d told the man he wanted him to fuck him.

“So what did you do with him last time?” she teased. “Or am I going to have to use my imagination?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he smiled awkwardly, taking another sherbet lemon when she offered it to him.

“C’mon kitten, you know you don’t have to tell me.” She patted his knee. “But if you do want to talk, about anything, you know I’m here.”

“Yeah.” He smiled sincerely at her. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to talk about his sex life with her, but knowing she was there as he started experiencing the realm of romantic relationships was reassuring. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Junior G.”

---

Reid pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose as Alejandro poured wine into their glasses. He’d purposely worn them, along with what Garcia called his 'ugliest damn button-down sweater'.

Ever since the night following their first date, when in his kitchen Alejandro had told Reid he was attracted to him, he decided to take the man on his word and not worry about what he wore. It wasn’t that Reid was particularly self-conscious about his appearance, but he wasn’t confident in the same way, say, Morgan was.

But he’d realised when he woke up in Alejandro's bed that he’d had no issue getting naked with him, and he hadn’t with Morgan. He had been pondering why nudity seemed to come easier to him with men than women, but theorised it might not be indicative of a higher attraction to males necessarily, but because his encounters with men had been in more comfortable settings. His sexual encounters with women had all been fleeting and awkward.

He was brought out of his thoughts as Alejandro set the bottle down.

“I’m glad you agreed to a second date with me,” he said sincerely. “I was worried maybe things had gone too fast last time, you left so early.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Reid said, taking his glass of wine and sipping thoughtfully. “I’m a thinker.”

“I can tell.”

“And so I was thinking about what happened.”

“And?” Alejandro asked, gesturing with his own glass.

“Well.” He decided to be honest; knowing the man was leaving eventually made it seem easier to talk to him. An out. “I thought maybe things had gone too fast too. I’ve never dated before, I’m not sure if there’s a specific amount of romantic social interaction that are meant to take place before cooperative sexual behaviour.”

Alejandro merely nodded, listening with interest to him talking. The most refreshing thing about the man’s attentiveness was that he looked like he understood what Reid was saying, that he wasn’t merely keeping up, but actually processing the information Reid shared. It wasn't as if everyone treated him like that, but it was a particular fear when it came to the idea of dating.

“Then I considered that I’m actually not interested in fulfilling conventions about dating. What we did was safe, consensual and enjoyable, and those are the things I consider my priorities, rather than fulfilling social norms.”

“That’s refreshing, Spencer,” Alejandro said. “If more people had those motivations...” he laughed off the comment, it was obvious where it was going. “If a restaurant is too conventional, we can go somewhere else.”

“No, no,” Reid assured, “this is nice.”

They looked at the menus – or more accurately, Reid scanned his menu in under twenty seconds, while Alejandro took considerably longer.

“You told me when we met about your very fast reading. How many books do you read a week?” Alejandro asked, leaning his elbows on the table and folding his hands, resting his chin on them.

“Well that depends on their length and the amount of time I have, my job isn’t conducive to repetitive hours, and although I can read very fast that's not necessarily conducive to enjoying the book, so I don't actually read for leisure at 'full pace', so to speak.” He glanced at his date, and found no indication that he wanted Reid to get to the point and couldn’t help smiling a little.“But fifteen is a low number for a week.”

“You can’t buy that many books a week, surely?” Alejandro said, obviously referencing their first meeting in a book shop.

“No. I usually buy books recommended to me or ones I’d like access too, otherwise I use the library. I also have a subscription to a book rental service online, and there are also some books, and especially academic papers only available as e-books, so I brought myself an e-book reader a few months ago, combined they all mean I can read as many books as I have time for.”

“Si. I have the reader also,” he said. “Do you prefer it, or books? You know, paper, pages.”

“Well a combined use of them is practical, but I prefer books.”

“New book smell, the first crack of the spine...”

“Yeah.” Reid nodded, smiling. Suddenly he wished they were having dinner in a library.

“My grandfather owns an antique book shop in Barcelona,” Alejandro said. “When I was ten I took the girl I liked there, thinking she would be impressed. She wasn’t.”

Reid smiled, despite the pang of disappointment in his chest; his childhood contained very few similar anecdotes about budding romance. In fact the only story of note involved Alexa Lisbon, a goalpost and a football team, and only Morgan knew about that.

“Do you have a favourite book?” Reid asked.

“Well my favourite book is not my favourite work,” Alejandro said, and Reid didn’t miss the way his face lit up at being asked about an obvious passion, his face creasing with a smile. “My favourite book is a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I do like the story, it was my favourite as a child. It was a plain, not illustrated copy originally, and a past lover, he drew on every page, a scene or a character, or a thing from what was happening in the story on that page. I treasure it always.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Reid said. The effort that must have gone into a feat like that was impressive; the original version of the story was twenty-seven thousand, two-hundred and seventeen words in length, and at an average of three-hundred words per page for standard print books, though of course that could vary, meant at least ninety-one pages. For all of those to be illustrated personally as a gift for a lover was a thought that registered beyond impressive to Reid; it was entirely romantic.

“And you said it wasn’t the same as your favourite work; what is that?”

“Invisible Monsters, Chuck Palahnuik.” Alejandro nodded and drank from his glass, studying the other man’s face, as if waiting for his reaction.

“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known,” Reid quoted. Alejandro smiled over his glass.

“You know it.”

“Yes,” he said simply, drinking from his own glass before he could tell the other man he had read Palahnuik’s work collectively twenty-four times. His first instinct, in their light conversation, was to ask why it was the man’s favourite. But the book had dark themes, and he didn’t want to risk the man feeling he had to divulge its emotional significance to him at dinner. Luckily at that moment a waiter came over to take their order.

Their conversation remained on fiction books right through the meal, which Reid determined was why it took them so long to eat. Many diners came and went in the time they spent together, and they were well into a second bottle of red wine by the time their dessert came.

“Kanom chun is usually served at auspicious occasions, as the nine layers symbolise moving upwards in relation to work,” Reid said, with a piece of said green layered desert on his fork halfway to his mouth, gesturing with it instead of talking. Alejandro was engaged; not once had he seemed to lose focus on Reid. “This is the first time I’ve had it,” he said, popping the cube into his mouth.

“I’ve had it when I was in Thailand.”

“You’ve been to Thailand?”

“A few years ago.”

“Do you travel a lot?”

“Si.” He nodded. “I have not been home to Spain in, ah, four years?” he gave a little laugh and a shrug. “It was Japan, then India, South Africa, Bali, Ireland, then here to America.”

“For work, or...?”

“Not so much. Actually,” he gave another little laugh, “I won the lottery.”

“Oh.” Reid couldn’t help grinning, the odds of meeting a lottery winner running through his head immediately.

“I finally had enough money to be impulsive and transient like I always wanted.” He put down his fork beside his empty plate, and gave a small wave of his hand. “I think I only succeeded in being – how do Americans say – a douchebag, who went to exotic places to find himself.”

“Did you? Find yourself, I mean?” Reid asked, smiling in what he hoped was a humoured way.

“I’m a work in progress,” Alejandro said, sliding his arm across the table and brushing Reid’s fingertips with his own. Reid slowed, putting his own fork down and stealing a glance at their hands before he decided it was nice and turned his hand over below the other man’s, letting their fingers interlace loosely.

When the waiter came over to clear their plates and ask them if they wanted coffee, Alejandro smiled and Reid blushed; they both knew they weren’t having coffee there.

---

Morgan realised, quite suddenly, that he hadn't had sex with anyone else since things had happened with Reid.

It wasn't as if he hadn't had the opportunity, he'd been out drinking, he always had game. He could be out now, meeting a beautiful woman who was looking for a good time, her orgasm guaranteed, because Morgan delivered.

Instead he was wandering around his house in his sweats eating Thai noodles straight from the container, being trailed by Clooney.

There was a music channel on the TV and he was wondering if he should do something simulating like reading; he browsed his living room bookshelf, peering at the crinkled spines of books by Vonnegut, Heller, Eggers, Palahniuk. ‘Invisible Monsters’ was upside down, so he pulled it out just to set it right, because he didn’t much feel like reading about a woman blowing her own jaw off at present.

He could draw, he had a tattoo design he was working on, but that would mean having to concentrate, and he wasn’t sure he had the capacity for that right then.

Boredom was not a good state for him to be in, because if it persisted it always ended in masturbation, these recent weeks. Which was great in itself, but Morgan was finding it increasingly difficult to justify what he thought about when he touched himself as simple fantasy.

When he’d first discovered masturbation the images he’d conjured up had been simple; inspired by television, men and women he vaguely recognised, bikinis or swim trunks as raunchy as it got.

Once Buford had started... helping him, he'd lost interest. Despite the rage of teenage hormones, he'd focused on his studies and football and didn't touch himself. Wrapped up in shame, it was only after he had escaped to college that he'd been able to breathe, to be ale to wrest back control.

So what if he'd occasionally thought about the other guys on the football team? That was normal, it didn't mean anything.

Reid was an exception; he always seemed to be an exception. But the only kind of uncomfortable the thought of having sex with Reid caused Morgan was the tightness in the front of his pants. Maybe the shame, too.

With nothing better to do he didn’t ignore it, palming himself through the thick materials of his sweats and shifting on the sofa, getting comfortable.

He closed his eyes, recalling the memory of Reid’s white flesh in the lamplight as he slipped his hand into his pants, moving again enough to push them down below his balls.

It was so easy to imagine Reid’s hand wrapped around him rather than his own, to remember how breathless and eager he had looked the first time.

He licked his palm and returned it to his cock, stroking as he remembered the warm wetness of Reid’s mouth, his pink lips stretched around him, the unmistakeable enjoyment.

He twisted his fist and stroked a little faster, remembering Reid in his lap, how much he had controlled their fucking, nothing like the reserved, awkward, passive partner Morgan had imagined he would be.

He didn’t want passive as a rule, but his cock jumped in approval at the thought of pinning Reid below him and fucking him, of feeling the man’s legs wrapped around him as he pounded into him, of seeing that unbridled want in his eyes.

Morgan came with a grunt, spilling out over his hand as he imagined emptying himself into Reid, imagined his friend gripping at him desperately and crying out his name.

He opened his eyes to the sight of Clooney sat by the sofa, looking at him innocently.

“Damn!” he jumped up, stuffing himself back into his pants and bustling through to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

“Just because you’ve got no problem licking your balls in front of me, doesn’t mean I’m okay with doing the same.”

The dog gave an agreeable bark.

He braced his hands on the counter, his pulse still throbbing in the climb down from his orgasm. He wondered if it was safe or foolish to be imaging Reid so intimately, now the man had made it clear that it wouldn’t happen again.

Reid wanted more than Morgan could give, and now Reid was dating, anyway. He noted the stab of jealousy at the thought of Reid with Alejandro, of imaging him pushing inside Reid’s body instead of him, wondered if Alejandro had discovered how sensitive Reid’s protruding hip bones were.

He didn’t even know the man, but he didn’t like him. Not fair, but true. He wondered if Alejandro stayed afterwards, like Reid had wanted Morgan to.

He wondered if Alejandro gave Reid everything he would never be ready to give.

---

Sex with Alejandro was different. It was hard not to compare it to his most recent experiences with Morgan; it was intense in a different way, a slower burn, but still fulfilling.

After their dinner they’d returned to Reid’s, and they’d quickly ended up in the bedroom, their clothes had come away and Alejandro had rectified what he saw as a problem when Reid had revealed he’d given oral sex, but never received it.

Alejandro was attentive but largely non-verbal, and seemed to act based on how much Reid enjoyed it. And he had enjoyed it a lot, feeling another person’s mouth on him, giving him sensation he didn’t think he’d ever be able to replicate alone.

“Do you want to top or bottom?” Alejandro had asked Reid; he felt a surge of feeling at the question. Alejandro hadn’t assumed their roles, there was dialogue, decision together.

“I'd like to try, uh, topping?” Reid said. New language, new understanding, a lot of reading now being put into practice. “But not tonight, I've had quite a bit of wine. I mean, you have too—”

“Spencer I am Spanish,” Alejandro teased, “I have wine for blood. I understand. We can try it the other way soon. I would like to know you inside me.”

Alejandro had proceeded to fuck him gently, thoroughly, a completely attentive lover who made sure to bring him to a blinding orgasm. In the aftermath they lay as damp hot spoons, the Spanish man mouthing playfully at Reid’s bare shoulder.

“That was better than coffee,” he said.

“I’d have to agree.”

“You’re okay with how fast it got here?” Alejandro asked.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “After our first – well, date – you said you could be an experience.”

“Si...”

“Do you have a lot of short term relationships?” Reid asked, turning a little so he was lying on his back.

“Are you doing that profiling thing, like you do at work?” Alejandro teased, brushing his fingers over Reid’s stomach. “I do have relationships that are wonderful, but yes, most often they have a short life. Luckily, they usually end on good terms. Mutually beneficial, enjoyable. Everybody knows what to expect, we do not tell lies, we do not say things we do not mean.”

“Has it always been that way?”

“For a long time, yes,” Alejandro said. Reid could tell there was more to say, but Alejandro didn’t want to elaborate. Another novelty, to know someone without having to learn every tiny details of everything they were.

“Do you ever...” he paused, swallowing and trying to form the words before he spoke. “Have you ever had a short-term relationship where you develop serious feelings for the other person, and they don’t reciprocate?”

Alejandro shifted, raising himself up on an elbow to consider Reid.

“Or, more accurately...” he went on, prompted by the other’s soft but intense gaze, “already had serious feelings for them, and ended up in a sexual relationship, only to then realise how you feel and also that they... don’t.”

“Do they know how you feel?” Alejandro asked knowingly. Reid blinked a few times, surprised that Alejandro had picked up on the fact he was talking about himself, not appreciating his own lack of subtlety.

“They know I wanted it to be more than sex,” Reid said, careful to keep the pronouns he used neutral, “but they don’t want more than that. And we’re friends, and I think I was foolish to head into it thinking I could be okay adding a sexual level to our friendship without anything else.”

He couldn’t elaborate on Morgan’s resistance to challenges to his heterosexuality without revealing the ‘they’ he was talking about was male, and even though Ale didn’t know his friends and teammates, it still felt like too much of an admission. Those were Morgan's issues, and Reid couldn't work them through for him.

“I would say... if you go with them just to get the little you can from them,” Alejandro said, “it will end up hurting so much worse than never having what you want. Because you will be hoping all that time they will change. It is not a good feeling, to know someone does not feel the same.”

Reid smiled sadly; he had never held to hope that Morgan might feel like he did, but since they had become intimate the ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s had inevitably happened.

“I’m sorry,” Reid murmured.

“Don’t be.” Alejandro rested his head on the pillow again. “I do not mind you talking about this. If I can help you, even just listening, I will try.”

“It’s not weird, talking about someone else when we’re...”

“Maybe.” He gave a little laugh. “But I would rather be happy than not-weird.”

Reid smiled, sated enough by the other man’s words and assurance. His brain was still too fuzzy from orgasm to let it linger on Morgan; he’d have plenty of time for that. Right at that moment someone intriguing and wonderful was wrapped around him, pulling the covers around them in preparation for sleep.

“But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.” - Federico García Lorca

Chapter Text

“Lust is to the other passions what the nervous fluid is to life; it supports them all, lends strength to them all ambition, cruelty, avarice, revenge, are all founded on lust.” - Donatien-Alphonse-François de Sade

With just three weeks until Alejandro’s visa expired, Reid intended to spend the majority of his Sunday in bed – or on the couch, or in the shower, or against the kitchen counter – with Alejandro. The universe, it seemed, had other plans.

“Yeah, okay. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“A case?” Alejandro asked.

“I'm sorry.”

“I understand.”

“Do you want to, uh stay here? At my place we can resume our activities when it's done.”

He felt the request rather pathetic and presumptuous; why couldn't he have just said he wanted someone to be waiting for him when he got back?

“I will stay,” Alejandro said, eyeing Reid’s bedroom bookcase.

---

They were friends. Friends, and grown adults who had worked together for years, who knew each other well and liked each other's company. Morgan wanted to keep that, and he knew he needed to stop being stupid about what had happened. They were friends, they'd hooked up, and now they weren't hooking up any more. There was no reason for Morgan to be so in his head about it.

“So,” he said, as they drove down the interstate on the way to interview a witness, “how's things with your new boyfriend?”

Reid looked over at him, considering. Measuring him; his tone, his body language. Morgan wondered whether he was found wanting.

“Things are good.”

“He good to you?”

“I'm sure Garcia's already filled you in on the background check she's inevitably run on him.”

“Nah, Reid – I mean, she's run one for sure, but I didn't ask for the skinny. You're grown, you don't need someone to check your dates for you.”

The silence stretched out between them, and it was awkward. Things had never really been awkward between them, and now things had changed. Morgan took a slow breath through his nose, back out just as slowly.

“He likes to read.”

Morgan glanced over; something had softened in Reid, tension eased.

“Yeah?”

“In English and Spanish. Not as quick as me—”

“Nobody is.”

“—but voraciously. We talk about books, stories, writers. ”

“I'm happy for you,” Morgan said. Of course he was; Reid deserved to have everything he wanted. He deserved kindness and patience, care and attention. He deserved more than Morgan could ever give him.

When Reid grinned at him, all that care and ease of how it used to be before, Morgan felt calmed. Whatever had happened between them, it was going to be okay.

---

Reid had returned over eighteen hours later, at three in the morning to find Alejandro asleep on his bed, with his thumb wedged about three quarters of the way through Reid’s duel-language copy of Gabriel Garciá Márquez’s ‘Cien Años De Soledad’, or ‘One Hundred Years of Solitude’.

Reid lay down next to him, not wanting to disturb him even to get under the covers, but the pressure on the bed roused him a little and he let out a sleepy groan, letting go of the book and turning over, arm wrapping around Reid’s chest.

“He pensado en ti todo el dia...”

Reid understood well enough and the breath caught in his chest, scooting down comfortably with Alejandro against him, who had apparently fallen asleep again with ease. Reid closed his eyes and waited for sleep, even though he knew he’d have to get up again five hours later.

He’d never had someone waiting for him like this, never had something this close to a traditional romantic relationship. He was sure he could be happy with Alejandro if the circumstances were different. Or maybe just tried harder, convinced Alejandro to come back. They could do a long distance relationship in the meantime, Reid would love to write letters across an ocean to him.

For now, it made no sense to dwell on anything else. He kissed the top of Alejandro's head, and closed his eyes.

---

Reid knew that his team had worked out he was dating someone, but they hadn’t said anything yet. It was little wonder; they were profilers, after all. He could feel eyes on him as he drank from his glass, taking in the surroundings; it was their usual haunt when they got a rare opportunity to have a team night out; drinks, bar food, a modest dance floor which Morgan and Garcia were already utilising.

“Reid?” Prentiss drew his attention. “You okay?”

“Yes.” He nodded. He noticed Hotch, Rossi and JJ’s attention lingering on him, waiting to see if he was going to elaborate. “I invited someone tonight, to join us.”

“Is this who you’ve been dating?” JJ asked. Reid had the good grace to look a little surprised, but nodded.

“Do we know her?” Rossi piped up, and despite knowing the answer was ‘actually it’s a man’, what he said was ‘no’.

He didn’t have to fumble through the assumption, because only a few seconds later Reid recognised the form he had been looking for pushing through the crowds. He stood up and was spotted, and Alejandro brushed a hand back through his hair as he strode over.

“Hello Spencer,” he said, putting a hand gently on the small of his back, leaning in close to speak next to his ear. “May I kiss you?”

He was surprised to be asked, but felt a warm feeling that Alejandro was respecting any potential boundaries he might have. He nodded, and the man put a short soft kiss on his mouth.

When he pulled away Reid’s team were trying their best not to look too surprised, and as amused as he was he took pity on them and introduced Alejandro to each of them. He was just finishing sharing the recollection of their meeting in the bookstore when their missing team members emerged from the dance floor.

“Oh-” Garcia spotted Alejandro. “Oh! Hi there!”

He got up to kiss both her cheeks, and shook Morgan’s hand with a friendly smile and a nod that Morgan returned without fault. He didn’t stay at the table long, though, soon returning to the usual group of girls wanting to dance with him. Reid tried not to let his eyes follow him, concentrating instead on Alejandro and Prentiss exchanging a few words in Spanish.

Reid thought his boyfriend – that’s what he was read as, at least – fared well under the gaze of the gathered profilers, some of whom were less than subtle in their interrogation of him.

To his credit, Alejandro sidestepped most of Rossi’s questions designed to make him reveal things about himself, keeping what he wanted private.

He didn’t doubt that he’d get quizzed at work by Prentiss and JJ, but they did a good job of not passing comment on how lacklustre his public dating life had been so far.

Alejandro met his eyes over his drink, holding his gaze and smiling softly at him. He might not be Morgan, but he was certainly the best thing that had happened to him in a long time.

---

“You’re jealous.”

“What?” Morgan said, looking up from his breakfast. Garcia was staring him down with an intensity that made him fidget.

“You’re jealous of Reid.”

“Why would I be jealous of Reid?”

“Morgan, you know you can be honest with me, right?” She continued, without answering his query. “Are you... gay? Bisexual? Is that why you’re jealous of Reid, because he’s exploring his sexuality, and you’re... well, not?”

“Garcia, what are you talking about?” He laughed, a practised sound that he knew didn’t sound fake. Was pretty sure, anyway.

“At first I thought it was because he hadn’t told you, that you were feeling put out because he’s your best friend and he didn’t confide in you,” she reasoned. “But the way you’ve been acting...”

“Garcia, I’m not jealous of Reid.”

“And I’m not stupid.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Then if it’s not that, the only other option is that you’re jealous of Alejandro because you want Reid all for yourself.” The playful grin that had been in play on Garcia's face froze, and then her brow furrowed. “Wait.”

Morgan took a drink of coffee, feeling cornered. She couldn’t know, he couldn’t admit it. There was no way to avoid it though; if he ran, she’d know he was fleeing.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” She put her fork down, tilting her head a little. “I knew it. I thought I was just seeing things through happy rainbow glasses, but you’ve got a thing for Reid, haven’t you?”

“Penelope.”

“You’re not denying it!” Her tone was a mixture of conspiratorial and gleeful, and she’d picked up her fork again to gesture at him with. “God, I should have known I wasn’t over-thinking. Does he know? He’s with Alejandro, and – oh, my baby.”

“Garcia, stop, I’m straight.”

“Oh,” she paused, thinking. “Well, plenty of people have an exception.”

He laughed in a way that shook his shoulders, and she glared at him.

“Of all the people in the world to understand how complicated and squiggly-wiggly sexuality is, I thought you’d be one of them.”

“Why?”

“You’re a profiler. You know it’s not black and white.” She paused, rolling her eyes to herself. “Except when it comes to you, right?”

“Garcia—”

“Morgan, just think about it. How many other guys have there been in your entire life, who you’ve given a nickname to, that nobody else uses?”

“You think just because I’ve got a nickname for him I’m—” A dumb pause. He didn't know, or want to know, what she was implying.

“I think you need to consider what he means to you.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Do you want him to be more?”

“What? No.” Morgan shook his head. “We—no.”

“If he expressed interest, would you entertain it?”

“Penelope-”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I—”

“Do you want to be with him?”

“I don’t know!” Morgan snapped, slamming his mug down so hard hot coffee spilled out over his fingers. He swore and pulled them away, flicking excess coffee over the counter.

“Derek,” Garcia sighed, handing him a napkin, “you can’t just ignore this.”

He bit the inside of his mouth, refraining from answering back that he’d done a good job of ignoring it so far.

“Look, we're just friends. Sometimes friends fool around.”

“Oh my god, you slept with Reid.”

He wiped a hand over his face. He should have seen this coming; Penelope Garcia was, well, she'd said “platonic soulmates”, and that had felt pretty right. He trusted her, he loved her, and he should have known he couldn't keep this from her indefinitely. He wasn't even sure he had really wanted to.

“And somehow you let him go, and he's dating someone else?”

“Yeah, because I'm straight, and he's not.”

“Is it really so terrible to imagine a world where Derek Morgan is queer?”

He winced.

“Oh don't pull a face, I can say it. Personally I think you get the q-pass too, brown sugar.”

“Garcia, c'mon.”

“Okay,” she said, waving her fork at him again. “Then you shouldn't have slept with him at all.”

“Hey now, what? You were just about really to announce our engagement, woman.”

“Do you know why we've never had sex, Derek?”

“Uh.”

“Despite us both being incredibly sexy, and I imagine freakishly sexually compatible, we don't have sex. Because for me, sex is something I do when there's squishy, lovey-dovey feelings involved. And as much as I love you, to the ends of this freaking earth, they're not the same kind of feelings.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

She was right; Garcia was sexy, funny, and even if in some hypothetical other universe they'd have had a great time, it just wasn't like that for them.

“Well, if we slept together, respect and perfect platonic connection, but no lovely-squishy feelings, it would suck. It would hurt so bad, however good the sex was.”

“Yeah, but what does that have to do with me and Reid?”

“Okay, look,” she said, gaze intense over the top of her glasses. “I am going to apologise to Reid so hard for doing this, because it's not his fault you're an idiot and it's not fair, but my sweet, stupid chocolate god, Reid's been down bad for you since he met you.”

“What? No.”

“Yeah, Derek. And quite frankly, even though you're going to deny it and squawk about it because internalised homophobia is a bitch; I have never seen you treat anyone the way you treat Reid. I think you've had a thing for him for nearly as long as he'd been pining for you.”

Morgan could not do this. This righteous anger from Garcia was meant to give him some kind of of romance novel revelation, but it only made him feel so keenly ashamed of himself. If it was true that Reid had feelings for him, then Morgan had taken advantage of that. Reid had been hurting and craving, and Morgan had manipulated that.

“I didn't know.”

“I know. But you do now. And I'm telling you, Derek, you look at him like he's the moon in your sky. You've got to think about the possible that the great Derek Morgan might be a proud gay man.”

Derek Morgan considered that he would maybe rather be dead.

---

Under him Alejandro was hot and tight, responsive to each little jerk of his hips as well as the more pronounced thrusts. Reid was enamoured by the way he could control the motion, how slowing and speeding up would draw different responses, different moans and breaths, and as both of them climbed towards their finish, breathy words.

“Fóllame!” Alejandro gasped throatily. “Más duro, más duro!” And then when Reid evidently didn’t understand, “Harder...”

“Oh, right, okay,” he panted, increasing the force of his thrust as Alejandro laughed gently and pulled him down by the neck for a kiss.

“Más rápido...”

He moaned against the other’s mouth, and even if his brain was having trouble translating in the midst of sex, he understood that request well enough, and sped up.

Reid was proud to be able to drive the other man into orgasm first, but he wasn’t far behind, groaning and crying out, hips bucking erratically in the ripples of their climax. Alejandro clung to him, heels hooked behind his knees and hips still moving wantonly in the residual throws of climax.

“Spencer,” he breathed, cupping the man’s face in his hand, looking up at him from between heavy eyelids, “it would be so easy to fall in love with you. I do not understand how he isn’t.”

“What?” Reid blinked, disentangling himself from Alejandro.

“You’re in love with Derek.”

“I’m not,” he murmured, busying himself with disposing of the condom, back to his lover as he crossed the room.

“Tell me that a small part of you you does not wish it was him who just laid under you.”

“Alejandro.” Denying it would be a lie, and they didn't have time for lies. “I’m sorry.”

“Spencer, come here.”

The man’s tone was kind, and he waited until Reid turned slowly and came back to the bed, slipping in beside him. He ran his hands reassuringly up his arms to cradle his neck and the back of his head, bringing their eyes level. “You do not need to apologize. We were clear about what this is for us.”

“How did you know?” Reid asked as he relaxed into the man’s hold, allowing himself to be physically comforted.

“I already knew it was someone, it was just deduction of the signs at the bar the other night. You didn’t look at him all night, not even just a glance. That takes purpose, thought, to not do. You profilers might be good at this, but we are human, we can all read each other on some level, it is the basis of our communication.”

Alejandro released him, not crowding him as he lay down, settling into Alejandro's bed beside him. He turned off the lamp, but there was a street light almost directly outside of his window which gave Reid enough light to be comfortable sleeping there. Sleep, however, was not what was on his mind.

“I love him,” Reid admitted into the dark, before either man’s eyes could adjust. “I’m in love with Morgan. And if I hadn’t had sex with him, that would be fine. If I’d just stopped, and thought, I wouldn’t know that he doesn’t love me too. I wouldn’t know what it feels like, to be held like that by him, or the way he kisses. The idea of living knowing those things, but knowing I can only have them if it doesn’t mean anything...”

“It’ll destroy you,” Alejandro said quietly.

“He’s straight, he says. He identifies as exclusively heterosexual. But he didn’t—” he paused, considering the words before he said them. “He didn’t treat me as if our copulation was purely sexual release. He worked very hard to make sure I reached orgasm first on both occasions, he kissed me. On the second occasion he kissed me in public, in the bar, in the back of a taxi. He cared, and he was kind. He was the same Morgan I knew, but I got to have more of him.”

It hurt, it really hurt to voice it, to give shape to the pain that had rattled in his head for weeks, months.

“As soon as I implied I had feelings for him, or that I could, I might, he insisted on his heterosexuality. He refused to consider any other possibility, but at the same time wanted to continue being 'friends with benefits'. He doesn’t feel the same way I do.”

“It can be a hard thing, to know yourself. To admit to what scares you, and to risk loving.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what, Spencer?”

“Talking to me about being in love with someone else. I know you're leaving, and I know we agreed that this would end, but it doesn't feel right.”

Alejandro found his hand, laced their fingers together in the dark.

“A mi me bastaría con estar seguro de que tu y yo existimos en este momento.”

Reid's Spanish was poor, but this he knew, for a shared love of the source: It's enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

Time, if the universe had any kind of narrative sensibility, would stop here. It would allow him to wait here, to exist just in the dark peace of it a while. The universe did not care for any of them.

“This Derek, he feels something,” Alejandro offered into the dark.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” there was a smile in his voice when he answered, “he didn’t look at you the entire night, either.”

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.” - Federico García Lorca

Chapter Text

“I was clinging to all that had been and, in an ideal world, all that we had hoped for. He, he wanted out.” - Freya North

“I don’t want you to leave,” Reid breathed into the back of Alejandro's neck. The weeks had gone by too fast, and he'd be gone in a day. Reid would be alone again, only this time knowing exactly what the world could offer, and missing it.

“If I overstay on my visa, I’ll never be allowed back,” Alejandro said quietly, stroking his hand along Reid’s.

“You’d come back?” Reid asked hopefully.

“Not for you, Spencer.”

It was said kindly, but Reid’s chest still ached, and he dragged himself away from the other man’s body and sat up on the bed.

“It’s just sex to you, too,” he muttered darkly.

“Spencer, you know that’s not true. We were clear about what this was, what it could be.”

“But that’s changed, Alejandro,” Reid said. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“You’re not,” Alejandro gentled, like Reid was some wounded animal that needed to be soothed.

“How can you know that? You’re everything I could ask for. You're kind, and funny, and gentle. You read, and you make me laugh. You could love me, too.”

Alejandro leant up on one arm, his smile sad and kind.

“If Derek came to you now and said he wanted to be with you, would you choose me, or him?”

Reid didn’t answer, but they both knew what he’d say, even if it felt miserable and painful to admit; he’d choose Morgan without a moment’s hesitation.

“You are not in love with me, Spencer,” he said softly. “I am safe. This is perfect because it is short. I could not give you what you need.”

“You’ve given me everything I need.”

“Yes, what you need now,” Alejandro explained. “Comfort, stability, learning. I will be your friend always, but I can’t give you what you’ll need in the future. I can’t love you.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t love anyone. Not any more.”

“Why, Alejandro?” Reid could feel himself getting angry that the most perfect scenario couldn’t continue, that yet another man could not bring himself to love him. What there something wrong with him, that people couldn't love him?

“I loved once, Spencer,” he said. “The one who gave me the copy of Lewis Carrol, with the drawings. I loved him with every part of me. He had cancer, and he died. Mi vida.”

There was a silence in the room, where the anger drained out of Reid. He hadn’t wanted Alejandro to share that information just to offset his anger, it was cruel.

“Sometimes you only love once, and it lasts forever or it destroys any hope of that.”

“So, love isn’t worth it. This – sexual, emotional connections, but not love, is the best I have to hope for?”

“No, Spencer,” Alejandro said soothingly. “It is worth it. It is worth the heartbreaking, and the hurting. It is worth dying for. If he feels like you do, you deserve to know it. Perhaps he just needs to work it out. He hasn’t had a me to help him work through.”

“You're not just a tool I used to work through my feelings, Alejandro.”

“No, but I am your friend. I offered this working through to you knowing what I was doing.”

“So what do I do, when you’re gone?” Reid said, running his hands over his face and back through his hair. “He shuts down when I confront him.”

“Then don’t confront him,” Alejandro said. “Just talk to him.”

“He won’t want to talk.”

“Then he might need time. This is not easy. The way you talk of him, Spencer, I think you are a good judge of a man. He is a good man.”

“I know. But I can't keep hoping something will just change in him.”

“Hope is good, and you must keep it, always,” Alejandro says, so gentle but so sure of it. “Come back to bed, Spencer. We only have a little time,”

Alejandro reached for him, touching his back gently. Reid let out a long breath through his nose, and then crawled back under the covers, into Alejandro's waiting arms. It was a small comfort, but he immersed himself in it, and pretended it could be this perfect forever.

---

It was an office day, but nobody seemed to be in the bullpen. Morgan could see Rossi and Hotch talking in the latter’s office, but none of the women were anywhere to be seen, and Reid wasn’t at his desk. He decided to call in on Garcia, only to find that was where JJ and Prentiss were.

“Hey. Where’s Reid?” Morgan asked.

Prentiss and JJ looked up from their conversation, sympathy on their faces.

“He took the day off,” Prentiss said.

“Alejandro is going back to Spain,” JJ explained. “His visa runs out tomorrow. I don’t think he told Spence. So they’re having a last day together.”

“It’s so sad,” Garcia piped up, looking miserable. “Reid’s been so happy.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought they had a real connection,” JJ said. “I’m pretty sure Reid called him his boyfriend.”

“They could have a long-distant relationship,” Prentiss offered.

“I don’t think so,” Garcia said. “It sounded pretty final. Like Reid thought it was one thing but it turned out Alejandro never wanted a long-term thing. Just a fling. Kind of an asshole move, nothing weird came up on his file.”

“Garcia, you did not background check him, did you?” JJ said.

“As if I was gonna let Reid shack up with some unvetted rando. Pity they don't keep records on heartbreakers.”

She looked at Morgan pointedly, and his tried his very best not to react.

Morgan hated the little part of himself that was relieved, because it was selfish and awful. He knew he couldn’t give Reid what he wanted, so had no business entertaining thoughts of it.

At the same time, the thought of how miserable Reid must be caught up to him. He knew he had to see him as soon as work got out, to make sure he was okay. They were friends, and he needed to to make sure his friend wasn’t at risk of breaking apart like he was the first time things had got physical between them. He couldn't leave Reid there if if he was in a bad place, not again.

---

They’d had sex to say goodbye, sprawled on Reid’s bed. Reid had clung to Alejandro's skin, encouraging him, writhing under him, fucked to bliss. They exchanged sweet kisses and endearments, murmurings in Spanish and English as they relished the last of their contact.

Then he had to watch Alejandro leave, take his cab to the airport.

Reid could still feel the heat in his groin, the ghost of fullness and pressure. The man had promised to call and keep in touch, but it didn’t mean any less that it was over. The lover that had never promised to be anything other than temporary was probably boarding his plane at that moment.

So when he heard a knock at his apartment door his mind raced through possibilities worthy of cheesy romance novels; Alejandro coming back, telling him they could make it work, or declaring his love, promising him the world.

Instead he found Morgan stood at his door.

“Hey, Reid.”

“Morgan.” Reid swallowed; Morgan was the last person he expected or wanted to see. Morgan couldn’t do this, not now, it wasn’t fair.

“I heard Alejandro left.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just here to check you’re doing okay, Reid,” he said calmly, holding up his hands passively.

“Why?” Reid asked, feeling unmoored and reckless. “Why now? Why right now, Morgan?”

“You’re my friend, Reid. I want you to be okay,” Morgan’s gaze faltered, and he looked at the floor. “God, kid, I want you to be okay. I want—you.”

“You want me?” Reid asked.

Wasn't that mirror what this was all about? His own want, returned. They should talk, like Alejandro had said, but Reid was too drained for words.

Instead he pulled Morgan into his apartment by the front of his shirt and then pushed him up against the closed door, kissing him needily. Morgan responded in kind, put his hands on Reid’s hips and kissed back.

“Morgan,” Reid breathed, pushed away from the door and led Morgan towards the bedroom. He doubted the man would miss the musty smell of sex – less than an hour before Reid and Alejandro had been there together.

They tumbled onto the bed together in a heap of limbs, and found each other’s mouths again. Morgan moved between Reid’s legs and pressed their groins together, hand running along his side.

Reid knew it should go slow, he should savour the feeling that Morgan wanted him, properly wanted him, wanted more. But his body refused to listen, and then his own hands were at his waist and pushing his slacks down away from his hips.

“God, Reid,” Morgan murmured in between kisses.

“Want more.” A kiss. Fuck me.” Another kiss.

“Need to get you ready.”

“I’m ready. Now, Morgan.”

Morgan groaned, hips pressing down hard again Reid's as he strained up against him.

“You just fucked Alejandro here, didn’t you?”

Reid bumped his hips up wantonly, the words sending electrical signals straight to his groin.

“Uh huh,” he managed to get out as Morgan helped divest him of his slacks and moved to hastily unbutton his shirt, just so it was open enough for him to get to the flesh below.

“God,” Morgan growled as he ran his and down where Reid would normally have underwear on, to find nothing.

“Lube? Condom?”

Reid scrambled for a condom, pressing it into Morgan's hand.

“You won't need lube, Morgan.”

Reid’s hands worked Morgan's belt, and when he got it open he pushed his jeans and underwear down around his thighs. He shook his foot at the sensation of his slacks still hanging off, dislodging it, and brought his legs up around Morgan’s as he pulled off his t-shirt.

“Morgan, please.”

More words had failed him, but he didn’t want to use them right then. He wanted Morgan inside of him, he wanted him like burning, wanted to smell his flesh up close and talk later, talk never, just exist here.

“Did he fuck you here, on your bed?” Morgan asked, voice low and gravelly.

He didn’t wait for an answer, whether he realised Reid was having trouble articulating or not. Instead he licked a stripe up Reid’s neck, fingers probing at his entrance.

Reid groaned when Morgan’s fingers slipped inside to minimal resistance, and clung to whatever parts of Morgan were closest.

“God, pretty boy, he really only just fucked you, didn’t he? You’re all stretched out for me. Do you want me?” He punctuated the question by thrusting his fingers in and out of Reid, curling them to stroke over his prostate.

Reid would have thought Morgan just wanted to hear him say yes if it wasn’t for the gentle nudge of his nose against his jaw, and knew in that moment that as ever Morgan needed to know Reid wanted it, didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t okay.

“Yes, yes,” he panted. “I want you. You want me too, right?” he asked breathlessly, verging on delirious.

“Yeah,” Morgan breathed as he slipped on the condom. Reid lifted his legs to give Morgan access, and in a swift, firm move Morgan had pushed several inches of his cock inside of him.

“Fuck!” he gasped, clinging to Morgan’s shoulder blades.

“Oh god, Reid.” He took care, but he wasn’t gentle; reading the man’s face, watching him to make sure he was okay. Reid hooked his legs behind Morgan’s knees and encouraged him to thrust, slowly pushing himself deeper.

“Morgan!” he groaned, and licked sweat from his top lip.

“How big was he, Reid?” Morgan murmured, lowering his mouth to nip at his jaw. “Did he stretch you out? Did he stretch you out like this?”

Reid groaned.

“Did he ever reduce you to this? Overload that genius brain of yours?”

Not like this he hadn’t. Not this fire, this desperate need, this hit, that pushes all rationality our of him.

“Morgan, you—”

Morgan bit Reid's neck, grunting with the effort of fucking Reid into the mattress.

“Please, Morgan,” he pleaded. He wasn’t sure how much he could take, how much longer he’d be able to communicate what he needed. Morgan knew, and reached between them to grab his cock and stroke him feverishly.

“C’mon, come for me.”

Reid cried out and threw his head back as he came, his body convulsing with the sensation. It was more than enough to drag Morgan with him, who came with a shout and hammered through, the bed creaking ominously.

“Mine,” Morgan gasped out against the man’s neck as he finally shuddered to a stop.

His.

Reid kissed the side of Morgan’s head and ran his hands down his damp back, savouring the smell of their sex and the heat of their bodies together. This felt right, here again with Morgan; new, curious intent to the thing.

Eventually Morgan pulled out slowly, and instead of rolling off to the side, backed off the bed. Groggily Reid blinked, and stretched his legs out.

“That was so good, Morgan,” he murmured.

“Glad you liked it,” Morgan grinned as he started to do up his trousers again. “We should do it again some time.”

Morgan was pulling his shirt on has Reid sat up.

“You’re leaving?” he asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Morgan said, looking confused. Looking something more feral and terrified, if Reid had had the capacity to read it, in that moment, but he missed it, as Morgan buried it under ease and a lopsided grin.

“But... I thought... what the hell, Morgan?”

“What?”

“You said you wanted me.”

“Yeah, and I just had you.” Morgan didn’t say it with any venom, but it landed just the same. Reid’s cheeks were burning with shame.

“You selfish fucking bastard.”

Morgan frowned, but Reid was up, not caring that he was only wearing an open shirt.

“You can’t do this to me! You know I wasn’t okay with this! You know I didn’t want to be just a fuck! You said you wanted me!”

“Reid, I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean to make it seem like—”

“Fuck you, Morgan! You can’t treat me like this! You’re meant to be my friend! What the hell was that possessive ‘mine’ bullshit if you don’t want me? What the hell is wrong with you, Morgan?”

“Reid.”

“Don’t you get it, Morgan?! I’m in love with you! And you treat me like a whore! Don’t you feel anything for me?!”

The sad, pathetic look on Morgan's face inspired no pity in him, no solace.

“I’m not gay, Reid,” Morgan said weakly.

“THEN STOP FUCKING MEN! STOP FUCKING ME! I'M A MAN!”

Reid was shaking with rage. He had never felt more betrayed in his life than he did looking at Morgan, who looked caught between shock and angry tears.

“You’re a hypocrite! If you were still treating me like your friend and not a cheap fuck, and Alejandro had treated me like this, you’d have told me he was an asshole!”

“Reid, I’m sorry.”

“I don't wanna hear it! How could you do this to me? You're a coward!”

He could feel hot tears threatening him, but he didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to show Morgan how much it hurt to be treated like that.

“How could you know I don’t want to just have sex with you, and use me? Manipulate the way I feel just to fuck me?”

“Reid please, I’m sorry,” Morgan said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did, and you didn’t think about it, and you didn’t care. You were supposed to be my friend. You were supposed to let me down gently, tell me you don’t love me back without stomping all over my feelings. You were supposed to give a single shit about me!”

“Reid—”

“Get out!” Reid yelled. “Get out! Don’t ever come back, don't call me, don't ever fucking look at me again!”

Morgan looked like he wanted to say something, but he thought better of it, and left.

Reid waited thirty seconds after the door had closed before he burst into tears and crumbled onto the bed.

”I have no right to say or do anything that diminishes a man in his own eyes. What matters is not what I think of him but what he thinks of himself. Hurting a man in his dignity is a crime.” - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Chapter Text

“Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.” - Dave Pelzer

"Clooney," Morgan whined, pushing the dog away from the coffee table where he'd just sent a half-empty bottle of beer tumbling over in his enthusiasm to get to his master for a fuss.

Most of the spilled contents ended up seeping into the rug, and Morgan wiped he few splashes on the table with his hands and then slid them along his jeans. Clooney settled his head on Morgan's knee, and even as he tried his best to look reproachfully at the dog, he couldn't resist scratching at his ears.

He was over-energetic and needed a good long walk, but the BAU case schedule had got in the way, and Morgan's neighbour had been unable to help him out like she usually did, so the canine had only had short walks that week.

Now it was late and raining and Morgan couldn't summon the will to go out.

"Sorry, boy," he cooed, lowering his head to give the dog a kiss. "I'll give you a long walk tomorrow, c'mon." He patted the sofa beside him, encouraging the dog to jump up and sit with him.

He was pretty lax about having Clooney on the furniture, but he'd never seen the sense in treating a pet like family but not letting them sit in the comfy spots. He picked up the beer and gave the bottle a little shake, judging there to be enough to be worth his time despite the spill, and settled back into the couch. Clooney nuzzled against him, putting his head in his lap and making a little sound that was almost conversational.

"I'm just not up for it tonight. Drunk a little too much," he admitted, recognising the tipsy feeling in himself. "Been thinking too hard."

He clicked the bottle against his bottom teeth absently, and then took a sip. It had been more than a week since he'd turned up at Reid's house and fucked him, and it probably topped the list of the stupidest - and cruellest – things he'd ever done. He had given in to a purely sexual desire, a territorial and claiming want that left him feeling ashamed in his bones.

"There's something wrong with me," he murmured, to himself or the dog it didn't matter with a few beers in him. "I fucked my life up and I don't understand it. I don't understand why I still want him. Even though what I did was horrible, and he wants nothing to do with me, I still think about it, about what if he wanted me too."

Clooney looked up at him, as if he was really paying attention to his words. It was pretty convincing.

"Reid," Morgan explained to the dog. "The skinny guy."

He slipped down further into the couch, exhaling slowly through his nose. Drink had lubricated his thoughts, and everything he'd been fighting against had come much easier tonight than other nights. It meant he had nowhere to hide, the alcohol inhibiting his ability to deny what he knew.

"I think I love him," he muttered. "But I don't. I think I do, but I can't. But I can't tell him, what am I gonna do? Waltz up like 'hey kid, I know I used you for sex, manipulated you, hurt you, treated you like shit, but hey I love you, so forgive me'? I won't. Won't do that."

He couldn't love Reid, he didn't like men like that, he wasn't gay.

He was so adamant of the fact, and so terrified of thinking otherwise. Because if he wasn't straight, he knew what that meant, knew that every lie he'd ever told himself about coming through unscathed was untrue.

He had fought so hard to keep the manifestations of those possibilities a bay, and somehow they'd broken through and consumed him, consumed Reid right along with him.

"I can't believe what I've done," he groaned, dropping his head back onto the couch. "I don't wanna be this." He screwed his eyes shut tight. "I don't wanna be like him."

---

He hadn't talked to Morgan since they'd had sex. Even in the weeks after when they'd been paired up on cases, they'd only shared rare essential words. It would surprise him if the team didn't realise something was up between them, but nobody mentioned anything. When he was called to Hotch's office one morning, he wondered if an awkward conversation was finally going to ensue, and steeled himself.

"Reid," Hotch said as he entered his office. "You remember James York, in Iowa?"

It was not what he was expecting, but of course Reid remembered – he still sometimes had nightmares about the man rubbing against him, the nightmare visions going further and further than it actually had. Sleep was hard enough to come by, having nightmares of being raped and sliced open by York did nothing to help.

"Yes," he said, shifting his weight and doing his best to display nonchalance at the mention of a man that haunted him in such a way.

"Since you got him to reveal that he'd had female victims too, a lot of missing person cases have been linked to him. He's been unwilling to talk so far."

Hotch delivered the information in his usual work tone, but he had fixed Reid with a stare laced with concern.

"So far?" he asked, shifting on his feet again. There would be no alarm bells, though Hotch's looks were always quite penetrating, and sometimes he wondered if the man picked up on all the things people consciously or unconsciously tried to mask, even beyond the way the rest of the profilers did.

"He's said he'll talk to you."

"And you're sending me to Iowa?"

"It's not an order, Reid. You don't have to go."

For a second he wondered if Hotch was hoping he'd turn him down; he was still staring levelly at him as he gave the thoughts a moment to process, and while it didn't surprise him that Hotch didn't try and dissuade him, he was sure the man's gaze had softened.

"Hopefully I can get some of those families some closure."

Hotch nodded, resigning to Reid's decision. "You and Morgan can go as soon as we've arranged travel."

"Morgan?"

"It'd be irresponsible for me to send you alone to see York again, considering the interest he showed in you. I asked Morgan, and he accepted. Would you prefer to go with someone else?"

"No, it's fine."

He didn't want to have to explain why he'd rather not be in a situation alone with him, even if it was a professional one. It wasn't the issue of fraternization that worried him so much as having to explain in detail what had happened in Iowa, what he'd hidden from the team.

He didn't know if not telling anyone he'd allowed himself to be molested by a suspect to get him to talk was cause for termination, but he was certain the outcome wouldn't be a positive one.

"Good. They want you there on Thursday, to interview him at noon, so it's an early flight. I'll make the arrangements."

"Thanks, Hotch."

As he lingered, Hotch spoke up, voice edged with concern.

"Are you sure you're up for this, Reid?"

"I'm sure if anything goes wrong, Morgan will save the day."

Hotch raised an eyebrow; apparently he hadn't hidden his bitterness well enough.

"Is everything okay with you two?"

Reid waved his hand, adding a small smile and a shrug.

"It's nothing. I'll let Morgan know we're on for Thursday."

---

It was not an enjoyable flight – Reid didn't say a single word to him even though they sat next to each other, and there was a definite chill in the air. He didn't push the issue, because he couldn't blame Reid not wanting to talk to him after what had happened.

A big part of him was regretting agreeing to accompany Reid to Iowa, but a more steady part of him knew it was best if it was him; Reid wouldn't end up in a situation where he was forced to reveal what had happened with York last time.

As much as the thought of what he knew had transpired made his skin crawl, Morgan wasn't about to contribute to a situation where Reid would have to deal with dragging it all up again. Seeing the serial killer was going to be hard enough without the rest.

He knew he needed to apologize, to talk about what had happened even if was only to take the rest of Reid's anger like he deserved, but he couldn't bring himself to broach the subject on a crowded plane.

He'd had several weeks to reflect on the stupid decision he'd made and how he seemed to have become a terrible person in the past few months, turning through all the events in his head over and over and cursing himself for the kiss that had started it all, a kiss given in comfort to a friend who had been wanting to get high, a kiss that had awakened terrible things in Morgan that he hated.

The more he thought about it all, the more anxious he got, existing in a state he was so unsure about, but knew didn't feel right. He didn't love Reid, he couldn't call it that, it wasn't what love was meant to be; it was something altogether unwholesome, a desire he was trying his very best to fight back.

Reid deserved so much better than whatever Morgan was feeling for him.

It was hard, when all he wanted to do was get on his knees and beg Reid to forgive him for what he'd done, as if that could really fix anything.

Even forgiveness right out of the man's mouth wouldn't change what he'd done, wouldn't change the context in which he'd done it, wouldn't fix what Morgan had realised had been broken in him a long time ago.

Morgan would not be cruel hands, and care as coercion to someone else.

---

Reid had gone on custodial interviews before, he knew how they worked. He'd even been on one that went wrong; when he and Hotch had been trapped with a murderer set on killing the both of them, he'd managed to keep talking, keep them alive, until they could get out.

"I have to go in alone," Reid said as he rolled down his sleeves, eyes on the one-way glass.

"Reid—" Morgan said, as if he wanted to protest, but he knew they were unlikely to get results from him with Morgan in there, so he couldn't let him come in.

"He responds to me. We have an established relationship," he reiterated, running a hand over his jaw. He'd just been to the bathroom to give himself another quick shave with his electric razor to make sure he didn't have the trace of a stubble shadow; looking young was key to getting York to want to interact with him.

"He's not cuffed, Reid," Morgan pressed.

"That's one of the conditions of him talking," Reid reiterated. "There's a guard in the room, you're out here; it'll be fine."

"Couldn't you use me?" Morgan asked. "Couldn't you use me in some way to get him to be more talkative? Play us off each other, or make him jealous, make him want to have your attention all to himself?"

"The local officers have already questioned him, that should incline him to me. I don't need you."

He knew there was more venom in the words than needed, but Morgan's face didn't betray anything in response. He turned away, steeled himself with a deep inhale, and proceeded.

The only thing different about York was the prison jumpsuit; the smug air of confidence was intact as it had been the last time Reid had seen him.

"If it isn't my favourite faggot," he said, and Reid let himself flinch more obviously than the slur would have usually made him. He needed to appear weaker than he was, softer, younger.

"Aw, son," he cooed, and his face softened in a caricature of kindness. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to upset you. You're a sweet boy, you've been on my mind. I think about the last time so often, about how much I gave you."

He slipped into the seat opposite, noting the lack of restraints. There had been a part of him that had thought he'd have to do the same as last time to get information out of him, but he knew he couldn't for his own sake, he couldn't give that part of himself up again.

That meant he was going to have to placate him in some other way.

"Mr. York," Reid said, trying to sound like he didn't want to upset the man, deferring to him. "I know they've offered you deals if you give them the information they want. Why haven't you taken any?"

"How else was I going to see you?"

"You know that if you don't cooperate, they'll take the offer off the table," he said, smiling in what he hoped was an apologetic way, meeting the man's eyes more, as if he was becoming braver, more at ease with him like York wanted.

"I have information they want," he confirmed, "but you only just got here, Spencer, there's no rush. I didn't ask you here to let you leave disappointed, I wouldn't let my sweet little fag go home empty handed."

"How many have you killed in total?" Reid asked, keeping his voice as soft and meek as he dared without being obvious that he was acting.

"That's no fun, boy!" he laughed. "Remind me, how many did I tell you about last time?"

"Five," Reid said, before he could stop himself.

"Do you remember their names?"

"Luke."

"The straight boy," York said, and Reid felt his stomach lurch.

"Colby."

"The disappointment."

"Kieran."

"Ah, beautiful Kieran. Big brown eyes, like yours."

"David."

"The loudmouth."

"Tommy."

"My first boy."

"Counting Gregory," Reid said, "was that all the boys?"

"Gregory," York said, rolling the name around in his mouth with some delight. "My legacy. My new favourite, in fact. Special, that one."

"You let him live," Reid said.

"I created something beautiful in that boy," York mused, genuine, sickening fondness in his voice. "Something that lives on, even if I'm here."

"Did you let any of the girls live?" Reid asked, and tried his best just to sound curious, keeping eye contact, feigning intrigue.

"Why would I of done that?"

"Legacy," he suggested. "Aren't girls, generally, a better way to leave a legacy?"

"You're thinking very literally," York said smugly. "I'm sure I made most of those little whores pregnant, but they weren't really around long enough for it to take. Fathering a child is an inexact way to leave your mark on the world. If I let one of them live, to have my child, she'd raise it as best she could. Maybe she'd give it up to some family that wouldn't even know how the baby came to be.”

York leaned back a little.

“That baby would grow up without knowing anything about me, without being affected by me in any way. For all that risk, I'd have made no difference. With Gregory, I had a much better opportunity. He's alive. He's out in the world, living his life, and at the same time he's mine. He will always be mine. My boy. My creation. My legacy."

"Tell me about the girls."

"You don't like girls, son," York teased. "Don't waste your time."

"They were a waste of your time, weren't they?" Reid asked. "Last time, you said they were disappointing."

"They were easy."

"They can't have all been easy," Reid said sceptically. He was careful to try and keep his tone like that of a precocious child, curious and just waiting to be impressed, rather than a grown man passing judgement and doubt on the killer's assertions. "The first one couldn't have been easy."

"You wanna know about my first?"

"Yes."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

Reid wasn't really surprised by the angle, but he tried to look like he was seriously considering it. He could probably spin something up off the top of his head, but he didn't want to have too many lies going, or have too much to focus on making sure he was projecting. He'd have to go with the truth, mostly.

"Okay," he nodded. "I was seventeen, and at college. I graduated high school a year early." That part was a lie, of course – but he didn't want York to get distracted with the information that he'd graduated at thirteen, and by seventeen he'd already completed two college degrees. "We were in a study group together, and one night after a study session we ended up back at her dormitory, and the other members of the group sat outside while we did it."

It was the same story he'd told Morgan about this first time, shared in the comfort of an aftermath. He wondered whether behind the glass, Morgan had noticed.

"C'mon, boy," York scoffed, "I'm going to need more than that if we're playing tit-for-tat. How did it feel to fuck someone for the first time?"

He knew the man wanted Reid to identify with him, so he considered the profile they had on him, and all the other information they'd gathered once they knew who he was.

He was very intelligent and deeply misogynistic, raised by father who beat his mother, in an environment where that was the norm, and his father's pinpoint rage directed at the most significant woman in his life imbued him with a warped entitlement to others.

It wasn't a remarkable upbringing by any means, and if James York had been a heterosexual, bisexual or homosexual man attracted to other adults, he would have likely turned out as a run of the mill misogynist, destined to treat women badly and likely be an abusive spouse.

But James York was a pedophile with a focus on newly pubescent children, with gender as a tool rather than a preference, which changed things significantly.

Reid was relieved that at least to try and keep York onside, he'd have to veer away from the truth by necessity; he didn't want to have to give up anything else to this man.

"Powerless," he said, averting his eyes in faux shame. "She was experienced, and she... She took charge and I was just, like, swept along. It wasn't really memorable, and I didn't really feel like..."

"You had any control?" York asked, a knowing smile. Got him.

"No," he lied. The actual coupling in question had been awkward and exploratory, but ultimately unremarkable.

"Was she your age?"

"Basically," Reid gave small shrug, still trying to make the whole discussion awkward.

"I like them younger."

Reid bit back a snappy retort, instead just let his gaze wander back to York.

"Not at first, I suppose. I felt the same as you, at first. When I got older, the same kind of girls that had intimidated me, who seemed so unreachable and unfathomable were suddenly... not. Dumb as mud, most of them, for one," he said, offhand.

York was studying him for reactions; Reid made a play at hiding the tiniest hint of a smile.

"Girls mature earlier, so I suppose when we were the same age they were all grown, only by benefit of their hormones. Quirk of nature. But once I had the upper hand, they were all so easy. Girls crave attention and validation, and that was something I could give. They'd do practically anything for it. Though the fact that they were easy made me challenge myself, so I really couldn't have done it without girls."

"You said you'd tell me about your first girl."

"The first one I fucked, or the first one I killed?"

"They're not the same one?"

"No, boy," York laughed. "I was like you, remember? I couldn't have killed the first bunch of girls I ever fucked, I could barely get them to do what I wanted. It was slow going, though as I got older than fourteen I started realising wanting young girls wasn't just a fourteen year old being into fourteen year olds. I got older, the girls didn't, and slowly I got better at fucking them.”

He practically leered at Reid, who shifted uncomfortably.

“Getting older, I realised the joy of virgins; there's something special about being the first to pop that cherry. Even if you're rough with them, it takes a bit more work to get a boy bleeding, but virgin girls with a hymen still intact will pop however gentle you are. I guess I do miss girls, sometimes," he said wistfully.

Reid tried his very best not to let his disgust show, trying instead to seem reluctantly curious. He knew York liked to flesh things out, he enjoyed making people uncomfortable, and he enjoyed when others involuntarily responded to him even more.

"The older I got, the better I got at making them cry, too. I didn't discover the best way to do it until I was nineteen. I'd spent a few months working on a farm outside Algona, and I'd got fit because of it. I'd always been skinny before, not much to look at. I filled out that summer, and the girls loved it.”

Reid catalogued, matched up the man's descriptions with what they knew from the case. For all that York wanted to cause a reaction, Reid had yet to catch him in a lie.

“The local school girls would hang around by the fences on their way home from school just to look at me. Now pay attention, I'm getting to the good part," York said, glee clear in his voice. "One girl, cute little blonde thing. Fourteen, maybe. Mary. She was sweet on me, and it didn't take much for me to get her in the barn on her knees thanking me for taking her out for ice cream in town. She wasn't as cooperative as I wanted, though, and things got a bit rough.”

York licked his lips, gaze with Reid unbroken.

“She's lying there, mouth bleeding, crying, begging me to stop out in a barn where nobody can hear her, but I still worried we'd get caught. I threatened her with my knife, but she made so much noise when I fucked her, I cut her a little bit on the breast just to show her I meant business. The way that skin cut under the knife, well, I knew I'd found something special. Before I knew it, she was cut all over her tits and stomach, crying and screaming and writhing about, and I was in heaven."

He shifted in his seat minutely, but Reid already knew the man was getting aroused from the minute changes; dilating pupils, increased lip-licking, vocal changes.

"I'd seen the farmer slaughter a cow once, and I knew there was only one way this could get better, and not leave me having to deal with a bleeding, crying girl running to the police. It's harder to cut someone's throat than anyone ever leads you to believe."

Reid hated himself for picturing it, for picturing it all, but his brain readily supplied the images. He knew her face, which made it worse; there was a missing Mary from the Algona area of Iowa that fit the timeline, he knew what she looked like in life, and what her bloated corpse had looked like when they'd dragged it out of the river.

"What did you do with her body?"

"Threw her in the river," he confirmed. "They found her a few months later, I heard, but I was long gone. My name never came up, as far as I'm aware."

Reid scratched his neck thoughtfully, taking a moment to compose his thoughts and push away the images.

"Will you tell me how many girls there were in total?"

"That's no fun, boy! Don't you want to hear about them?" York teased.

"Yeah," Reid said sheepishly. "But I want to know how many there were."

"You tell me how many men have fucked you, and I'll tell you."

Reid wondered whether the honest answer of two would put York off being agreeable with him. He was well aware of the tropes that York assumed he fit; submissive, eager to impress, promiscuous with sex partners because of it. So he played to that, shrugging.

"I dunno."

"Yes you do, boy. I know you've kept count."

"Twenty, maybe, twenty one-"

"Which is it, boy, twenty or twenty one?"

"Twenty one!" Reid said breathlessly, casting his mind about the most embarrassing thing he could recall in the hopes it would leave him blushing, adding credibility to his claim.

"I knew you were a little whore," York said, though despite everything it was clearly an affectionate tone. "Straight men too, I bet. Real men who just want a hole, not fags."

Reid couldn't stop himself shaking, but hoped he was still hiding his disgust. He wanted this to be over so much, but they'd come a long way and there were so many missing girls who had potentially been linked to him.

"I killed five, including Mary," York offered, as though the information was a reward.

"Did you bury the other four, like the boys?"

"Yes and no," he said evenly. "Buried them, but not all in the same place like the boys. I know putting them all in one place got me caught," he mused, "but it was worth it. Those girls taught me a lot, but they turned out only to be practice."

"Were they all in Iowa?"

"You got a list to narrow down, boy?"

"I was only allowed to come here if I got answers."

"You seem to of lost interest in what I’ve got to say."

"I haven't," Reid shook his head. "I just want to know about the circumstances."

"Your boss promised you a nice hard fuck if you get all the information he wants, hm?" York teased, eyeing Reid. "Married, is he?"

"He's not the one I've been thinking about!" Reid blurted wildly, knowing he was losing the man's interested, having spoken about his interest as procedural rather than personal. He needed to get him back onside. "I wanna know about you, about all of them."

York cooled rapidly, leaning back in his chair.

"Boy, let's not play any more," York said, waving a dismissive hand. "You look young, but we both know you're not young enough. We both know you're not fresh enough for me. Don't get me wrong, boy, I'd tie you up and give you the best fuck you ever had, but I wouldn't put the effort in making you one of my boys, even if I wasn't doing life right now."

Unbidden, for a split second Reid was upset that for James York he wasn't attractive enough to rape, torture and kill. Between coworkers and Spanish lovers and serial killers, he was worth nothing but a fleeting fuck. Immediately he had to fight back the wave of acute self-loathing that followed the intrusive thought.

"James," he tried desperately to get him to keep talking.

"Guard," York called, holding Reid's gaze and grinning. This was another win in his mind. "I want to go back to my cell."

Reid pushed himself away from the table and left the room with the greatest of efforts it took to remain calm. Outside the interview room, the eyes of Morgan and the detective who had headed up the York investigation were waiting for him.

"I lost him," Reid shook his head. "I couldn't keep it up, I started asking about numbers and locations and he thought I was losing interest."

"You did well," the detective said, and he looked like he wanted to reach out and give Reid a reassuring pat on the shoulder, but didn't. Reid was glad. "I didn't expect him to tell you anything, to be honest," he admitted. "I thought it was a long shot. He likes game-playing too much."

Reid nodded, looking through the one-way glass at York being prepared to be taken back to his cell.

"There's something else," the detective said, holding out a folder to both of them. Clearly he hadn't told Morgan about this yet, because he looked just as interested as Reid. "Gregory Taylor's mother brought these to me. She found them in her son's room."

Morgan, who had taken the folder, flipped it open to reveal the first of a stack of letters in a small, cramped handwriting. There were perhaps two dozen letters, one for each week over six months.

"They're from York," the detective confirmed. "Men like him sometimes get a following of sick fans, so strange letters aren't new. The prison doesn't know how he's getting letters out to him, because they'd never approve the boy as an allowed contact. I don't know if the boy is sending replies. I was hoping you'd go talk to him."

"Not today," Reid said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We'll go tomorrow. In the afternoon, after school's out. Can you let his mother know?"

"You got somewhere to stay?" the detective asked.

"Yeah," Morgan nodded, closing the file. "We're here two nights, our flight back is early Saturday."

"I don't think York is gonna talk again that soon, fellas," he said, as he offered his hand. "But you know where to contact me if you need anything."

---

Morgan didn't try to talk to him as they drove back to the hotel, though Reid wasn't entirely sure he would have noticed if he had. All he could think about was everything York had told him, every horrifying detail he'd shared and what he knew from case files, his mind oh so helpfully threading them together in graphic embellishment.

As they walked through the hotel and got in the elevator, Reid wanted Morgan to say something, anything he could use to jump off on; to shout, punch, kick, scream, anything. Morgan stayed quiet.

When they reached their room, before Reid could think too much about it he dropped the box of files he was carrying and his bag onto the table, crossed to one of the single beds, flung himself onto it, smothered his face in his pillow and screamed at the top of his lungs.

He knew Morgan was standing right there, knew he'd be judging, but he didn't care. He used to do it regularly, screaming out his frustration at his mentally ill mother where she couldn't hear it and be upset by it, or have it worsen an episode of unreality for her.

He took a deep breath and let out another scream into the pillow, and it seemed to help to take that energy and expel it.

When he extracted himself, breathing heavily, Morgan was looking at him with an impassive look. Reid widened his eyes in challenge, and in response Morgan raised his eyebrows and averted his gaze.

"I've got some movies on my laptop. You want to watch something?"

"No," Reid said. "We're going to go through those files and work on York's other victims."

"You think he gave enough information?" Morgan asked, immediately attentive to the task. He went over to the table and began taking files out of the box as Reid came over to join him.

"He gave away more than intended," Reid said. "We know there's four to identify. And he told me about the first time, and that changes what we're looking for."

"The pattern of escalation," Morgan muttered, and Reid nodded along. "We'd assumed he would have worked his way up slowly with the sexual torture, discovering what he likes."

They both settled into chairs by the table and spread the files out across it.

"But he found what gets him going with Mary; the cutting," Reid supplied. "The act of cutting, slicing into flesh; that's what he wanted to describe in detail, more so than the rape. The rape factored in, but it was about how his victim reacted to the cutting that enhanced the rape for him."

"But there's going to be some degree of experimentation," Morgan pointed out. "The cuts on Mary were numerous but shallow. The boy's wounds were different, much deeper."

"I know," Reid murmured. "We should eliminate those victims we're sure don't fit into his preferences."

"He likes children who are hitting puberty. So for girls, it'll be the development of breasts that attracts him."

"On average, girls with the corresponding sexual characteristics begin puberty between eleven and fifteen, but it can be much younger, or delayed much later."

"We should focus younger," Morgan said grimly. "Double digits, but young."

Reid gave him an inquisitive look, wanting Morgan to elaborate on this thinking.

"He's not an opportunistic offender, so he has a specific type. He has a thing for virgins, so the younger, the better. But not too young, because even if they're hitting puberty early, they're not necessarily in the same situations and social groups for him to access. Think twelve and thirteen, when kids are getting some independence. Let's go up to fourteen, too. I think the girls are going to skew younger than the boys, and they were fourteen and fifteen."

Reid nodded, and together they began to sort the files out; some were of girls who had gone missing, others of girls whose bodies had been found. Every girl fifteen and older, they put in a pile on the nearest bed, out of the way.

"He admitted to burying the other girls," Reid said. "So let's eliminate any bodies that hadn't been buried."

"What else?"

"Cuts to the breast," Reid said. "They're a focal point or him."

"They are for most sexually-motivated killers who kill women."

"I know."

"Actually," Morgan said, looking in a file, "we might be able to exclude this one; multiple stab wounds to the stomach and breasts, but no slicing cuts."

"A stab is dangerous, especially to the chest," Reid mused, taking the file to speed through it. "The coroner concluded these happened in quick succession and were the cause of death. York has no medical training, but most of his victims were kept alive. He doesn't panic and kill them while they're suffering, he kills them exactly when they're not interesting or engaging any longer. We should assume he tried to keep them alive for days, leading up to the MO we saw with his male victims. That's probably not him."

"Reid," Morgan said considering another file, "I think we should set aside all the cases of bodies found in or girls missing from Iowa."

"Seven out of eleven of his victims were killed and disposed of in Iowa; it's significant."

"I know, he admitted as much when he said that burying the male victims together got him caught, but was worth it. Iowa is his home. It's special. Even if he killed the other four female victims at the corners of the state, I think he'd have made the effort to bury them in the same place, maybe even near to where he killed Mary."

"He just might not have been confident enough to do that yet," Reid said, needing more convincing.

"Yeah, but if we eliminate her," he said, holding up a file, "on the basis of there being no ligature marks on the body, which is unlikely because he would need to restrain his victims somehow for keeping them long-term, we're left with only three missing girls from Iowa. Assuming we're not missing a potential, it doesn't seem likely that one out of eleven victims was killed out of state, deviating from a pattern."

"Unless the pattern was started after her," he reasoned. "If she was the second victim and he went out of state, then returned to Iowa because he realised he preferred it."

They worked on it for several hours, pouring over and over the files and rerunning theories, a constant chatter of back and forth, bouncing off each other in a way they'd honed through years of working together, any current tension and animosity set aside. Eventually things began to slow, and they found themselves talking over the same points again and again, until even their discussion tapered off.

Morgan sighed, sitting back in his seat and pushing the file he'd been holding onto the table.

"White or white-passing, female, twelve to fourteen, tied up, raped, cut multiple times focusing on the breasts and torso, cut throat, buried. None of the bodies we have in these files fits all the criteria. None of these are his victims for certain."

"He'll want to talk to me again," Reid said, pressing his fingers to his temples. "In a few months, maybe longer, he'll ask for me again. And I'll go through the motions again, and maybe he'll give me another name. I don't want to do that again, I don't want to sit there and listen to him detail raping and torturing children!"

"Reid, let's give this up for today. We're not going to get anywhere pouring over these files. We need names and burial sites to match so many of these missing cases up, we're pushing a dead end right now."

"Yeah, okay," he sighed. "We should go over those letters to Gregory Taylor."

"In the morning," Morgan insisted, beginning to gather the files up. "Let's order food, I'm starving."

Vaguely, Reid remembered that he was still angry with Morgan, incredibly so. But he thought that Morgan was being deliberately civil, not because he was pretending what had happened between them had not happened – Reid had to believe despite everything, that Morgan was a better man than that – but because he knew that facing York again was stressful, this case was stressful, and the last thing either wanted to do tonight was get into a discussion, or a fight, about whether they were even still friends at this point.

"You think we can get sushi out here?" he asked half-heartedly.

"Maybe," Morgan shrugged, looking at his phone. "I have an app, I'll check."

Reid finished packing the files into boxes as Morgan tapped away on his phone, and then tugged his tie from around his neck.

"Hey, I found a sushi place with delivery," Morgan updated him. "You wanna just get a mixed platter, or you want something in particular?"

"As long as it's got tomago, order whatever you think works," Reid waved his hand. "I'm going to get a quick shower."

It was a kind of truce, for the night, and with a roll of his tired shoulders, Reid committed himself to it. Time would tell whether Morgan would use it against him, and if he did, he knew there was nothing to salvage between them.

---

Reid had read through the letters from York to Gregory in just a few minutes, but Morgan had spent a much longer time on them.

Hours, in fact; there were twenty two, anything from one side of a page, to three pages, writing on both sides.

There was no way that York was getting them out legitimately, he was sure the content would have been flagged if they were subject to checking. In them were accounts of the boys he'd killed, in graphic, vivid detail, more so than the accounts he'd given to Reid, essentially pornographic retellings of the things he's euphemised under interrogation.

More than once, Morgan had found himself staring through the pages, remembering. Cruel hands, words that were meant to be kind...

There were what seemed like responses in the letters too, to questions Gregory was asking.

He'd figured that Gregory must have been writing back, and had probably initiated the contact. It wasn't that much of a surprise for a traumatised victim to develop curiosity or fascination with their abuser, but it was still unnerving.

The letter spoke at length about masculinity and gender roles, though they were a skewed vision of the concepts. The misogyny was not disguised by York's preference for boys, and the man's hatred for women and femininity was particularly vitriolic. A lot of it was almost indistinguishable from the rhetoric of organisations that advocated child abuse and paedophilic relationships, right down to the reliance on ancient Greco-Roman relationship hierarchies.

"Morgan," Reid said, getting his attention, "we should go now."

Anne Taylor was tearful as soon as they arrived at her house. It wasn't that her tears were an affront to Morgan, but his mind was on her son, and despite how hard it must be for her as a parent, it had little time to spare for her feelings.

"Mrs. Taylor, is it okay if I go talk to Gregory?"

"Sure," she sniffed, "he's upstairs in his room."

"Come up when you can," Morgan said to Reid, nodding at him. He left his colleague to talk to the boy's mother; her information might be useful, but Morgan needed to see him first.

Morgan headed upstairs and knocked on the door with a 'keep out' sign, judging that the most likely candidate for a teenage boy's bedroom. Gregory answered a few seconds later, opening the door a few inches and looking at Morgan with a furrowed brow, defensive and annoyed. The large keloid scar across his face was hard not to linger on.

"Hi," Morgan said, "I'm Derek Morgan, I'm with the FBI. I'm here with my colleague, he's downstairs talking to your mom. Can we talk?"

"She told me you were coming," Gregory said, stepping away from the door to let Morgan inside his bedroom.

It was, by most accounts, a normal bedroom of a teenage boy; a bit untidy and covered with posters of bands. The only things that struck Morgan as he gave the room a once over were a couple of places on the walls that were darker than the surrounding wall, suggesting posters recently removed, and a likely new collection of pictures of shirtless men covering what Morgan thought by the frame was a mirror.

He thought first about Owen Savage's blacked-out mirror, as his mind tried to avoid presenting the second image to him; the mirror in his own childhood bedroom, hidden under a football poster after Buford had started hurting him until he'd smashed it a few years later.

Turning to Gregory, he could see he had the look of a pudgy teenager who had recently started working out, losing fat and forming muscle, on his way to being a stocky young man. His hair was cropped short, and he held himself with a quiet defiance that Morgan recognised all too well.

Everything he'd been through and everything he knew Gregory had suffered put a lens on even the most normal teenage behaviours – including having half-naked pictures and beginning to work out.

"I guess you know why I'm here, then?" Morgan asked, going for casual but not too familiar.

"My mom found my letters."

Possessive, taking ownership of them meant he cared about them.

"How often does he write?"

"I don't have to tell you anything," the kid said, flopping down into his desk chair and swivelling himself idly.

"No," Morgan agreed, "but I'm guessing ever since your mom let you stop going to therapy, you haven't talked to anyone about what happened to you."

Greg stopped swinging himself momentarily, then narrowed his eyes and huffed a laugh as he resumed. "You want to hear all about it?"

"No," Morgan said firmly.

"Of course not," Greg retorted, "there's no desk for you to sit behind to cover your hard-on."

"Is that what your therapist did?"

"He said it was normal to have a reaction to hearing me talk about what happened."

"How often did he make you recount what James York did?"

"Dunno," Greg shrugged. "More than ten times."

"Did you tell your mom?"

"No, but it wasn't hard to talk her into not making me go any more."

"Your therapist shouldn't have done that," Morgan said carefully. "Do you understand that what he did wasn't okay for him to do, as someone who was meant to be helping you?"

"What does it matter? Real men take whatever they want, they get people to do what they want."

"Is that what York says?"

"James taught me how the world really works," Greg said. His tone wasn't aggressive, and he was sitting as if this were any other mildly awkward conversation with an unknown authority figure. Presently there was a rap of knuckles on the door, and Reid stepped in.

"York killed a lot of young boys and girls," Morgan said patiently, looking back to the boy.

"Not me," Greg insisted, eyes lingering on Reid. "I'm special."

"Yes, you are."

"He cares about me."

"No, he doesn't."

"He does!" Gregory said, jumping up from his chair and squaring his shoulders. "He loves me!"

"You don't hurt people because you love them," Morgan said gently. "You hurt people because you want to control them, or get something from them, or because you like hurting them."

"He didn't kill me," Greg said, and it was almost a plea. "I'm the only one."

"He didn't kill you, because he's getting more out of you alive," Morgan said, knowing it was harsh but hopefully not too much. "You writing to him lets him know he's having an impact in the world."

"But it doesn't matter!" Greg threw his hands up exasperatedly. "Don't you get it? He made me this way, everything I do is because of him now. Even if I killed myself, it would be because of him. He won. He won me. He has me. I'm his. I'm always going to be his."

"You're not, Gregory," Morgan said. "You're not his." He took a long breath in through his nose, considering his next words. He gestured at the boy's bed. "Can I sit down?"

"What? Yeah, whatever."

Sitting, with Reid settling to lean against the door and observe, obviously understanding not to interrupt the flow of the conversation, Morgan put his forearms on his knees.

"When I was younger than you are, I knew a man like James York."

"Yeah?"

"He liked to rape young boys. I was one of them."

Focused on him like Morgan had hoped he would, Gregory sat down in his desk chair again.

"They weren't exactly the same kinds of men," he explained. "He wasn't into being as rough as York was with you. But he did tell me that the things he made me do were things I was meant to do, that they were the proper way for me to show I cared about men I loved. He taught me that I should learn to like them, because it was normal and good and what would make me a man, but only as long as I didn't tell anyone. A lot of the time, I believed him, because he cared about me, and I was special to him.”

Gregory was watching him with rapt, devastating attention.

“The thing is, that when you're around someone, when they're a big part of your life, it's hard to look at the way they behave objectively. It's not until you get away, that you realise what happened to you wasn't okay. Be honest: have you thought about that, even just occasionally? When you're alone, thought what he did wasn't right?"

"Well, yeah."

"Even once he'd stopped hurting me, I kept thinking about everything he'd done and how it impacted my life, about how it shaped everything I did. It was like there was a score being kept, and whatever I did he was still winning, because he had a hand in it. He got points along the way."

"It's like he cheated," Greg muttered, nodding, evidently the use of points echoing with his own understanding. "If I like boys, he wins because he made me that way. If I can't like boys, it's because he scared me off. If I kill myself, it's because of him. He's always going to win."

"What took me a long time to work out," Morgan went on, "what I'm still working out, is that every person I've ever known, and everything that's ever happened to me, has some effect on me. So of course what he did to me affected me. It's why I joined the FBI, why I hunt down people like him, and like York, and stop them. I know it's easy for me to say, and hard to do, but you gotta know that even if he has had an effect on you, he doesn't automatically win.”

He held his breath for a moment, steeling himself.

“You don't have to do what I did; you don't have to go chasing down guys like him. The simplest way to stop him from winning is to accept that what he did is a part of your life, but your life is so much more. The things you feel and do aren't any less valid because of what he did. Some people might think they are, and try to tell you they are, but they're wrong."

"I want to," Greg sniffed, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands. "But I'm scared he made me bad."

"Bad, how?"

"Like.. him. Like I'll want to hurt people."

"You won't, Greg."

"But I think about boys, and men, it's wrong."

"It's not," Morgan said gently. "You're fifteen. It's perfectly normal for you to think about boys around your age, and men, in a sexual way. People who are abused don't usually become abusers, it is so rare, Gregory."

"I don't want to hurt anyone."

"Then you won't," Morgan smiled reassuringly. "It's okay if you feel messed up. It's okay if you think about dark things, or the things that happened to you. What happened to you was horrible, and it's okay for it have an impact on you. I can't promise that what happened won't stay with you, and keep affecting you sometimes, but your life is going to be full of things that shape what you become. This is just one, and it doesn't have to make you anything you don't want to be. You get to chose who you are."

Greg wiped his eyes again, and as he composed himself Morgan spared a glance over at Reid, surprised to find that instead of looking at the teenager, Reid's eyes were on him, intense and sad. He blinked and looked away, but it couldn't mask how intense the gaze had been.

"Do you have my letters?" Greg asked.

"Yes," Reid spoke up, gesturing the file he was holding.

"You can't give them back to me, can you?"

“No.”

"I don't wanna keep them," Gregory said, and he began shuffling around things on his desk until he produced a lighter.

"Do you have a shredder?" Reid suggested, understanding that the boy wanted to destroy the letters from York.

"No," Morgan shook his head, smiling at Gregory. "It should be by fire. Not in your room, though."

Not long later, Morgan and Gregory Taylor stood in the backyard of the house around an empty metal trashcan, Anne Taylor looking on nervously from the kitchen window, Reid watching from the back door.

"They might not burn as well as things do in the movies," Morgan advised. Greg looked up from the top letter of the stack he was holding, and nodded, thin-lipped and wide-eyed, nodding his understanding. "Whenever you're ready."

There were over thirty sheets of papers, and the first couple didn't burn very well. After about the fifth page, the fire got good, to the point where Gregory could drop each page into the flame, watching the paper burn and crinkle, adding the next one before the flame got too low.

Morgan could visibly see the weight lifting from the boy's shoulders as he consigned the letters to the flames. He knew it was going to be a long road, and it might not even be something he could ever get over, but the visit had gone better than Morgan feared it would.

"You should let the fire die, let the trashcan cool and then clean it out with the hose, okay?" Morgan said, a few minutes after Gregory had put the last page into the fire. He nodded, not looking away from the fire.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Here," he handed Greg a card from his wallet, "call me if you need help, or need to talk, okay? Any time."

"Sure."

Greg headed back towards the house and Morgan followed as far as the door, stopping beside Reid. Inside, Greg allowed his mother to hug him, still tearful, and they talked hushly.

"She's been thinking of putting him in reparative therapy," Reid said lowly, stepping away from the back door, "on the advice of her pastor."

Morgan seethed with white-hot rage for a brief second, and the look must have played out across his face, because Reid gave him a warning look. Morgan raised his eyebrows in challenge, then looked back to the kitchen where Greg had left the room.

"He went up to his room," Anna said as they entered. "Thank you for speaking with him."

"Speaking to him is only half the battle," Morgan said matter of factly, voice surprisingly calm for the teasing anger he could still feel. "What was the name of Gregory's therapist?"

"Look, he did his therapy, and I think it really helped, but he doesn't need that kind of help any more."

"Will you please get me the name and contact information of Gregory's therapist?" Morgan said, more insistently.

Anne Taylor buckled and nodded, then scurried off to find it. Reid looked questioningly at him.

"We're going to make sure this therapist is struck off, and hopefully thrown in jail," he muttered. "He's a predator. He got off making the kid tell him what York did to him."

Reid gave a nod as Mrs. Taylor came back.

"Here you go."

"Mrs. Taylor, I'm going to give you a number," Morgan said, taking out another business card and writing a phone number and name on the back of it. "If you speak to a woman named Sandra, explain in brief your situation, she will work with you to find a suitable therapist to work with Gregory, one covered by your insurance. You understand?"

"I understand," she said, taking the card, "but I was going to get him therapy through the church..."

"Your church is flat-out wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"Putting him into therapy to 'cure' him will harm him. He'll be told to hate himself for something he can't help, and something horrible that happened to him will be blamed for 'making' him that way.”

Morgan had no hesitation saying it; why was it so hard to make any such grace or understanding apply to himself? He felt it was uniquely arrogant that he was so insistent that he was different.

“Gregory does not like boys because of what happened to him; he is a young kid in the middle of exploring who he is, and something awful happened to him. James York did not turn him gay or bisexual; in fact, James York emphatically does not identify as gay or bisexual. Rapist's motivations are primarily power and opportunity, not orientation. Your son suffered multiple rapes and extended torture, he needs therapy to rebuild his self-esteem and to help him to be able to build healthy relationships."

"He can do that at church," she said meekly.

"Yes, he can," Morgan said. "But not any church that advocates or even tolerates therapy to cure gay people of being gay. These kinds of therapies are being challenged in the courts to make them illegal, they are harmful. If he's going to be part of a church community, it should be one that accepts who he is. You need to fight for that. If you don't, you're going to hurt him."

"I just want him to get better," she cried.

"Better shouldn't mean 'straight'," Morgan said as forcefully as he dared. "Better should mean healthy, happy, and dealing adequately with the trauma he suffered. Anne, are you going to be able to do the right thing to support your son?"

"Yes!" she gasped. "Yes, yes. I will, of course I will. I just want him to be okay."

Morgan hoped he'd gotten through to her – if Gregory didn't have her fighting in his corner, this recovery was going to be even harder than it needed to be.

---

"A shredder's too practical," Morgan said suddenly into the quiet that had come over the hotel room. He was sitting on his bed, stretching one arm across his chest, holding it in place with the other.

Reid looked up from his book, and immediately knew he was referencing the events at the Taylor house hours earlier. Morgan had been quiet most of the day since, had his headphones on as he worked on his laptop, only breaking for food.

He hadn't tried to engage him, knowing the day had been very draining. He felt guilty that he'd been so wrapped up in how York had focused on him that he didn't think about how much Morgan related to and was impacted by the case. Hadn't really thought about how any of this with York must have hit him, actually. Morgan speaking to Gregory had been the most detail Reid had every heard him use about what happened to him.

"It's probably more efficient in destroying something, especially if it's diamond cut and pulped," Morgan went on, "but it's not about efficiency. Fire's symbolic, right? Cleansing, destroying something by burning it to ashes. It helps more than putting it through a shredder."

"It was good that you understood that," Reid said diplomatically, wondered what Morgan had burned, how he knew so clearly it was a necessary step, and wanted to desperate to know it. "I think it helped him."

"I hope so."

Reid watched as Morgan stretched for a few more minutes, realised the man hadn't met his eyes during this conversation.

"I'm sorry," Morgan said into the lull.

Reid didn't say anything.

"I know it's probably not something you want to hear now. I know I left it too long, but I was... a coward. I didn't know how to make everything I did, how I treated you, how to make it all better."

He swapped arms, stretching it out across his chest, and still didn't look at Reid.

"I know I can't. But I am sorry that I messed you around because I wasn't in a good headspace. Don't know how long I haven't been."

He looked across finally as he dropped his arm, rolling his shoulders and meeting Reid's gaze.

"Everything that Gregory Taylor said about York turning him into who he is, that's something I've lived with for my whole life. And I was okay, really, until you. I'm not saying it's your fault," he said quickly. "But wanting to be with you, I mean, wanting to be sexual with you was confusing. Because I believe what I told Gregory, and I know logically that what happened to me didn't cause those feelings. But when you've lived with it, it's hard to shake, no matter how illogical it is. You probably don't want to hear that."

"That you thought your sexual attraction to me was because you were sexually abused?" he asked before he could stop himself, sharper than he knew he should, but the thought hurt. "No."

He regretted it immediately.

"Have you ever been raped, Reid?" Morgan asked in return, voice matter of fact but clearly countering Reid's sharp tone. "Molested?"

"No," he said honestly.

"Then you'll never get it. And that's good, that you'll never have to understand. I'm sorry that it makes you feel bad. I know it's stupid, and ridiculous, and almost a hundred percent untrue. But I can never really know. I honestly don't remember whether I liked guys before Buford started hurting me. Some days, I know for sure I was. Other days, I'm sure I wasn't. Usually I just don't know. It's not your fault, and I'm sorry I got you all caught up in my personal bullshit."

All he really wanted to do was climb into Morgan's lap and kiss him so very gently. He knew it would make things even worse.

"That... it doesn't excuse how you treated me."

"I know," Morgan nodded. "That's all on me. That was me being a bad person. I was a crappy friend. I still am. You don't have to tell me it's okay or that you forgive me. I just want you to know that I'm sorry, and I'm trying to sort my issues, and if it's even remotely possible, I want us to be friends."

"Morgan—" he started, then sighed and rubbed his temples with his fingers, leaning his elbows on the tables. "Not being friends like we were before these last few weeks has been horrible. So I want to be friends again, but that doesn't mean I forgive you, or that I've forgotten."

"That's okay. I can live with that."

"Are you really okay, Morgan?" he asked, finally allowing the worry to play out, overriding his anger. "You're 'sorting your issues'? What does that mean?"

"Honestly? Not really sure yet," he said. "Therapy, maybe. Admitting what was going on was a pretty big one. I tried to ignore it, to pretend what I was doing was just... I don't know. I wasn't facing it. I was acting out and I used you, hurt you in trying to distance myself from my own issues. I'm sorry."

"Please don't keep apologising," Reid said. "You've said you're sorry, you don't need to keep establishing what you did for accountability. I believe you. I believe you're sincere."

Morgan exhaled through his nose, nodding a little. Reid felt relieved too, that finally they'd acknowledged the tension that had been lingering between them since their last encounter. Morgan was clearly putting the work in, and having a worst time than he was figuring out who he was.

He quickly smothered the spark of hope that lit inside him.

“I am a part of all that I have met.” - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Chapter Text

"There were some things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them and let them hurt me.” - Jonathan Safran Foer

They'd got no answers from York on any missing girls, but it was hard to see it as a loss when they'd helped Gregory Taylor. Things had been better since they got back; Reid and Morgan were talking again, and even if their banter was tinged with something that wasn't quite tension, it was a vast improvement.

Prentiss brought a bottle of wine over to where Morgan had made himself comfortable on her couch, slipping down into the seat beside him, turned sideways to look at him, their thighs touching. Intimacy in the thing, born of a deep and valued friendship.

“So what exactly has been going on with you?” she asked, not unkindly.

“What d'you mean?”

“C'mon Morgan, I know something's been up. You've just not been yourself. I thought it was the North Dakota case, everyone was feeling it. But you've not been right since then.”

Morgan sighed, swirling his wine.

“I dunno, I've been in my head a bunch.”

“You wanna get out of your head?”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing, Morgan. C'mon, safe space. You know I don't snitch.”

They'd become friends fast, bonded by Vonnegut and a degree of religious trauma. It was a hard won thing, but he trusted her.

“I, er. I hooked up with a guy.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The pause hung heavy in the air, and they both drank deeply from their wine.

“You know I'm gay, right?” Prentiss said.

“But you've dated men.”

“Yeah,” she said, keeping her tone even. “But I'm still gay.”

“How does that even work?”

“For me sex and love are separate beasts. Sleeping with men is fun, good. But I've only ever loved women, I always fall so hard. When I think about hypothetical romances, futures, a person I want to build a life with? It's women, all the way down.”

“But if you want to sleep with guys doesn't that make you at least bi?”

“No. Maybe for someone else it would. Look, I know we're profilers, we're so used to putting things into boxes, into to categories where anything that doesn't fit the expected pattern is rare. But I've done the work, I've thought about what I am and found what feels right for me.”

“How? How did you find out?”

“I experimented. I had fun. I did some research, some reading, I talked to other queer people. I went to therapy.”

Morgan shifted uncomfortably. Of course therapy; Morgan was still kind of hoping to to avoid that kind of accountability.

“Morgan, did you enjoy it? Being with a guy?”

No point in lying once he'd made the admission already. It wouldn't really be believable that he'd bring it up at all if he hadn't liked it, anyway.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then why is it giving you this much trouble?”

“Because I'm not gay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.” Liar. “Fuck, no. I'm not sure of anything any more. But I can't be gay.”

“Why's that?”

“I've slept with a lot of women.”

“Again, I am a lesbian, I have had sex with men.”

“It's not the same.”

“Why? Maybe you're bi.”

“I'm not bi,” he said, with absolutely no idea why he was so sure of it. Wouldn't that be easier, to claim that? It would explain everything away; it just felt like another lie. “If I'm gay and I've slept with all these women, what kind of guy does that make me?”

Prentiss made a show of the thinking she was doing, the consideration she was giving to her words.

“So you've slept with a lot of women. One night stands, a couple of repeats?”

“Yeah I'm a dog, I get it.”

“Hey, stick with me here. Did you ever get these women into bed by making them think you wanted a relationship? Or were you clear and honest about it just being a hook up?”

“I mean yeah, I'm always clear I'm in it for a good time, not a long time.”

“And you didn't ghost these women?”

“Nah, it wasn't like that.”

“So what are you worried about? It's not like you're tricking these women, they're not sleeping with you because you're straight, they're sleeping with you because you're hot. These women aren't being harmed by having sex with someone who consented, enjoyed it, who also might turn out to be bi, or gay.”

It was like he brain was rebelling against the logic of it, being forced to face how unreasonable, how cruel a standard he had been holding himself to. He wanted her to be wrong, he could feel the panic rising in him. He wanted her to chastise him, tell him he was fucking up, that he was wrong, that he deserved—

“But it's not right.”

Prentiss waited until he met her gaze.

“If you met one of these women again and she said she was a lesbian, would it bother you?”

Morgan considered the question. Would he feel offended? Worried he'd performed so badly he'd turned someone off men? No, because those were all juvenile, insecure worries.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Morgan, with everything that happened to you, I think it's normal that this is hard to think about.” She reached over to grip his knee, squeezing reassuringly. “It's normal that you didn't let yourself think about any of this stuff. I know you know that. Why are you an exception? Why are you so uniquely undeserving of getting the space to explore this part of you?”

He looked at her helplessly, and she titled her head, smiling softly at him.

“You're a good man, Morgan. You deserve to get to be the real you.”

It was really damn hard to believe her.

---

“Why did you bring me here?”

It wasn't like Morgan had never been to a gay bar before. For one, there were several gay bars that were Garcia's favoured haunts, but even beyond that, he didn't discriminate when it came to a night out. It had never been a problem; he'd been hit on by men, it wasn't a big deal. In fact, he'd had more trouble with women getting handsy and having to be firmly told 'no' than men over the years.

Still, this was the first time he was in a gay bar when he was questioning who the hell he was.

“Because I think you need a night out!” Garcia said, voice raised over the music.

“It'll be fine,” Prentiss said, patting Morgan between his shoulders. “Find a table, I'll get the first round.”

“You and Prentiss are ganging up on me,” he said, when they'd found a table where they wouldn't have to shout over the music.

“Me and Prentiss had a Queer Mafia meeting and decided to intervene.”

He wasn't worried that they'd discussed him, because he trusted neither would have divulged the specifics of their conversations, but it was still clear they were both on the same wavelength in all this. Maybe a few weeks ago he'd have been pissed, but now it just felt like a relief. The amount of self-examination he was having to do lately was exhausting; his friends just wanted to help.

Prentiss showed up with six very brightly coloured cocktails, complete with little paper umbrellas.

“What happened to beer?”

“It's happy hour,” Prentiss grinned, sliding something atomic green towards him. “Besides, cocktails are stronger, tough guy.”

Maybe before he'd have postured about it. It's not like he was a misogynist, but therapy was making him do some work. He accepted the drink with no further protest.

“So,” Garcia said, twiddling the straw of her drink. “What's your type?”

Morgan pretended to be extremely interested in his very green drink. It actually tasted really good; sharp, sweet, strong.

“Tall guys? Short guys? Bears? Otters? Twinks? Do you know what a twink is?”

Of course he damn well did.

“What's an otter?”

“In between a bear and a twink, but still hairy.”

Morgan had no idea. He'd only been letting himself consciously think about men like that for quite literally thirty six hours. He had no idea what he was into. Well, besides—

“What am I? In the animal categories or whatever.”

“Hunk?” Garcia said, looking at Prentiss.

“Gym rat?”

“Or a bull. Too smart to be a himbo.”

“Himbo?”

“Male bimbo,” Garcia said helpfully. Strong, dumb, but nice. Opposite of a jock, who's strong, dumb, but mean.“

“I don't think these are the same kind of categories as bears, Garcia,” Prentiss laughed.

“I know, but these are more fun.”

“Do women get a hundred labels too?” Morgan teased, to cover that he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. He was smart, and he knew and understood plenty of terminology around sex and gender, but man, this was a lot.

“Oh yeah!” she beamed. “You've got butches, femmes, futches, stone butches, pillow princesses, studs, loads more.”

“Do I need to take a test?” Morgan said, pulling a face.

“It's mandatory, yeah,” Prentiss said. “You don't get your gay card unless you memorise this.”

“And you have to learn the full hanky code for platinum membership,” Garcia added.

“The what?”

“It's like, code for queer men who wanna hook up. Handkerchief by colour and left or right side of the body, tells other guys what they're into. White hanky on the left, wants to get a handjob, white hanky on the right, wants to do the handjob-ing. Red hanky—”

“Garcia!” Prentiss warned, almost inhaling her drink. “Gentle.”

Morgan cast his eyes around.

“I don't see any handkerchiefs.”

“Bit more on the serious side of the scene, more likely to see it in clubs rather than bars,” Prentiss said into her drink. “Worth an internet search, though.”

He had a feeling that was going to be a hell of an education. Still, it was nice to be out with his friends, and any nerves had settled into the drink and the company. It'd been a while since he'd properly socialised, between the cases and the everything else of his life.

“Let's dance!” Garcia said, already dragging Morgan out of his seat, their first round of drinks finished.

Morgan was halfway to the dance floor when he realised there were a lot more men there than the usual makeup of a dance floor he'd frequent. Nerves roiled in his gut, and maybe his friends knew it, because as they neared each of them had found one of his hands and turned to him, giving him their attention, a buffer between him and the others on the dance floor, looking over at the newcomers, assessing.

He knew he had to just let go. He was done with fear, he was done with wasting his damn life afraid of his own self. So he began to move to the beat, in sync with Garcia and Prentiss.

It turned out it was not a big deal at all. Not that much different to when he'd danced in bars before, when women would move into his personal space to dance, only this time there were guys too. Or other genders maybe, he didn't know that. He didn't know a lot, but it was good. It was fun.

It was also kind of fascinating, that any attention from women seemed to pass him over completely, landing with his friends. A hot, tall butch gave him a familiar sort of nod before sidling into Garcia's personal space, and before long the two of them were dancing close. Prentiss was making eyes at a hot blonde across the dance floor, and that spiked a feeling that wasn't quite deja-vu but was something that he'd examine later.

When a tall, broad mixed race guy came close, body moving in time with him, it felt like a thrill. None of the panic he'd expected manifested when he positioned himself at Morgan's back and put his hands on his hips, Morgan felt the electricity of it shudder through him.

It felt good, the same way it did dancing with women; the heat, the tension of it, the synchronicity of bodies to music. Any fear he'd had that he'd feel threatened, insecure, that he was actually broken melted away in ninety beats per minute.

---

He'd found himself at Prentiss' house again, another bottle of wine and takeout, music in the background. Good talk. It felt like he'd been neglecting the friendship part of his life for a while now, so it felt good to get back to it. Conversation about movies lulled, and he turned something over in his mind in the silence, something he'd wanted to give to the air for some time.

“It was Reid.”

“What was?” Prentiss asked.

“The guy I hooked up with.”

“Oh. Tracks.”

“What?”

“I didn't know, but I'm not surprised.”

“You're not?”

“I'd been with the team a couple of months when me and Reid met your family,” she said, speaking around the events that had led to that. “Your sisters knew who Reid was without knowing his face. They said you talk about him. Confirmation I wasn't the only one seeing it.”

“Seeing what?”

“That you and Reid had something going on.”

“Nothing was going on.”

“Except the worst disguised obvious two-way crush I have ever seen in my life!” she laughed. Morgan grimaced, could feel heat rising in his face.

“Shit,” he said.

“Oh, and your mom definitely knows, by the way. The way she looked at Reid? Most definitely 'future son-in-law' vibes.”

“Christ.”

“So if you hooked up, when was this? After Alejandro?”

“After Bottineua County.”

“Okay, I get it. Everyone was a mess. Just once?”

Morgan shook his head.

“So it was Reid that got you questioning your sexuality?”

“I guess.”

Prentiss must have put all the pieces together, all the things she'd noticed in her friends. It came with the territory of being profilers, but she'd had the grace not to do the legwork until now, or at least not voice her conclusions until this night.

“So it must have all gone a bit sideways? Reid started dating Alejandro.”

“I really fucked up, Em.”

“How?”

Therapy was hard. He'd seen therapists through work before, but this was his first private therapist, found through the same contact he'd given to Gregory Taylor's mother. This was the first time he'd set out to talk about his identity, and truly, being accountable was difficult and draining. But he'd had three sessions, and now he was talking about stuff with his friend, so that was progress, right?

“I was horrible to him. I was, I was straight up homophobic.”

Prentiss clearly had to stop herself laughing at the choice of phrase.

“I was stupid, I was scared. That everything I was suddenly feeling was because of what happened to me, that it caused those feelings. Tainted them, made them fundamentally wrong.“

“You know that's not how it works.”

“Oh, I know. But that didn't stop me. He drew a line, didn't want to be friends with benefits in case he caught feelings.”

“Which is fair.”

“I didn't react well. Totally disregarded it, wouldn't hear him, hopped up on macho bullshit about not being gay. Treated him worse than I've ever treated anyone in my life.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. He'd already talked this though with his therapist, but it felt so much worse to tell it to his friend, Reid's friend. Prentiss, to her credit, let him continue.

“We hooked up again after Alejandro left. He was...” he said carefully, tongue thick in his mouth, eyes beginning to sting with the effort to not break down. “I didn't force anything but I... I took advantage. I just wanted to make him happy, but it wasn't enough, I was still in the same fucked up place, I was in denial. I should have honoured the boundary he set. He told me he's in love with me.”

“Oh, Morgan.”

“What the fuck do I do, Emily? We've been friends for years and I've messed it all up.”

The silence seemed to stretch on, heavy with the weight of Prentiss wanted to ask.

“Are you in love with him too?”

Morgan laughed - a wounded thing - because without thought, without posturing, without reliance on whatever fucked up defences he'd built up to protect himself from the fear of knowing what he was, it was the simplest, easiest question in the universe.

“Of course I am. But what good is that?”

“Morgan, cmon.”

“Nah, you don't get it. What am I meant to do? Tell him I'm sorry hurt him, but I love him, so it's fine?”

“Of course it's not fine. But don't you think he deserves to know what's been going on? Don't you think he gets to decide how he deals with that knowledge?”

“I don't want to hurt him any more.”

“You'll hurt him more if you lie to him. You'll hurt yourself.”

Morgan drank from his wine instead of answering.

“I know you think you deserve to hurt,” Prentiss said, because she was his friend and she was a profiler and he knew she cared for him from the very bones of her. “You don't, Morgan. There's nothing righteous about making yourself hurt.”

She took his wine from him, placed the glasses on the coffee table. Morgan knew what was coming and his body reacted accordingly, beginning to shake. Prentiss gathered him to her, bringing him against her in a deep, firm embrace. Morgan's breath shuddered against her neck, his eyes closed.

“You're my friend,” she said, squeezing him. “I don't want to watch you punishing yourself for loving someone. You don't deserve that, and I care about you, but my god, it's so arrogant to think you're so special, so uniquely horrible that you deserve to hate yourself.”

“Weird turn at the end of the pep talk, there,” he said, but it still rang true. She was right, and he hadn't thought of it that way before; there was a special kind of arrogance to believing the way he was deserved some special cosmic justice dealt to him.

“You've got to be kinder to yourself, because it's tiring me out, I want to go back to roasting you.”

She squeezed him tighter, and didn't let him go from the hug she was holding him in.

“I’m running from the very person I’m chasing, and this is how I know I’m in love.” - Jarod Kintz

Chapter Text

“I don’t want to be around you. I don’t want to drink you in. I want to walk into the heart of you and never walk back out. " - Nico Alvarado

“Can you really still not use chopsticks?” JJ said, as Reid twirled noodles around his fork.

“There are stone carving dated between five to thirty AD, from an Eastern Han tomb in China, that depicts three hanging two-pronged forks in a dining scene, which while being nearly twelve hundred years younger than the advent of the chopstick, still speaks to how ancient the use of the fork is.”

“That means no,” Hotch said, egg roll halfway to his mouth.

The post-case meal was a semi-regular occurrence, a way for the team to reconnect and ground themselves. They hadn't managed it since before Bottineua County. It was becoming a weird fixed point of reference, and it was the catalyst for so much in Morgan's life recently.

“It's fun to have our own Julian Bashir here,” Garcia was teasing.

“We haven't reached the point of genetic modification to increase IQ yet,” Reid said, “but I suppose he is a doctor.”

“Just need to find you a charming spy-tailor to fix you up with.”

“Did you know, Alexander Siddig and Andrew Robinson who played Bashir and Garak have always maintained that the characters—”

These were his favourite people in the world, all of them. He would and had risked his life for them, and would do it again in a heartbeat. He wanted to let them in, he wanted to be let in. He knew he had to make the first move; he waited until the conversation lulled.

“So hey, uh,” Morgan said, and almost shrunk under the weight of conversation dimmed, attention focusing on him. “I need to say something. And if y'all have already figured this out, do me a favour and just let me have this.”

His team were looking at him expectantly, a ripple of apprehension through them. Now or never; he was done with making this thing a fight, he was done with it hurting him; he was ready to give the knowledge to the universe and be a better man, truly himself.

“I'm gay. You all get one question that I won't beat your ass for. Go.”

“When did you know?” Hotch asked.

“Recent, last few months. Kind of a late bloomer.”

“Have you got a boyfriend?” Garcia piped up, Cheshire cat grin splitting ear to ear.

“Nope.”

“Do you want one?” Rossi said.

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to come out at work?” Prentiss asked.

“Not like this, but if anyone asks I'm not gonna pretend I'm not.”

“Pitching or catching?” JJ said, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“JJ!” Prentiss chided, caught in a disbelieving laugh.

“Hey, Morgan said we get a freebie question.”

“I have range, versatile,” Morgan said before he could think about it too much, even though his stomach jumped.

Everyone was looking at Reid expectantly now. Morgan didn't think Reid's eyes had left him the entire exchange, the weight of it heavy.

“Are you happy?”

Morgan smiled at him. Reid smiled back.

“Yeah. I'm happy.”

He was a profiler, he was trained to look at the minutest of body language; not a single one of the people around the table were reacting with any kind of upset or hostility. The relief washed over him like the break of a new day.

“Nice work team,” Rossi said, brandishing his chopsticks at the party. “Can someone please tell me the statistics on this entire team not managing to contain a single full heterosexual?”

“What?” Morgan said, blinking in surprise. Rossi winked at him.

“Heteroflexible?” Garcia offered helpfully. Rossi waved her off.

“I'm too old for labels, I like what I like.”

“Okay, no,” Morgan said, something exciting and warm bubbling in his chest. “Now I need details. Am I the last to know this?”

“It's not like we wear badges,” Prentiss said, pre-empting Garcia who began to object, “except for Garcia, obviously, but life is short, and people are hot.”

Reid had finally stopped watching Morgan, relaxed back into ease of the group.

“Studies of this kind of phenomenon are incredibly difficult to run, but there is some evidence that both gender-variant and non-heterosexual people gravitate to each other, unconsciously as well as deliberately.”

“Same for neurodivergent folks,” Garcia said. “But maybe we save diagnosing each other's syndromes and disorders for other dinner.”

“Hotch,” Morgan said, the question in the simple use of his name.

“I was with Haley for a long time, but I knew I liked guys too,” he said matter-of-factly. “I was a theatre kid.”

“Bisexual,” JJ said, when Morgan's gaze shifted inevitably to her. “I played girl's sports, and sometimes stereotypes are true.”

“Damn. Someone want to link me in next time we have a big group revelation?”

He'd done it; he was out, he was himself, truly, amongst his closest friends, maybe for the first time in his life. He knew it had taken a lot of hard work to get there, but with a silent laugh that shook his shoulders, he wondered why he'd waited so long.

---

Profiling made dating difficult, the say the least. He'd tried so hard not to profile Alejandro, but the connection between them had felt so easy, and he hadn't wanted to know more than Alejandro would give.

Now, it was efficient to use his skills, once Garcia told him about the best dating apps to use.

Kieran was a writer, with a particularly handsome Roman nose and green eyes, fingernails yellowed by a smoking habit, who wanted to impress Reid with his success. Unfortunately, Reid had mentioned that he'd read his crime novel about thirty two minutes into the date, and helpfully pointed out the numerous plot holes. The date ended after they'd finished their drinks.

Ophelia was an accountant with a deep voice and high cheek bones, who liked French cinema and probably BDSM. They'd talked about L'armée Des Ombres for almost an hour, drunk wine, and had a pretty good time. She didn't respond when Reid messaged her about meeting again platonically.

Mika was a tattoo artist with dyed white hair and peonies covering track marks on the inside of their arm. They'd clocked him almost as quick as he had them, and they'd spent hours drinking soda and talking only a little about drugs. They'd been honest about not being ready to build a serious relationship with another recovering addict, which Reid understood. The two had texted on and off since.

Harry stood him up.

Nakeem was funny and charming, an English teacher with a lot of brown-gold curls and a pet cat, judging by the ginger fur on his sweater. They'd talked about politics, vegetarian food and Maya Angelou. They'd flirted lightly, they'd split the bill, and Nakeem had text him about a second date. Reid had said he would let him know, in regards to his schedule.

Mark was rude about their waitress, so Reid tipped her and left.

---

“He called her fat?”

“He didn't actually say the word, but he made a comment about the fit of her pants.”

“Wow, dudes suck,” Garcia said, adjusting her fluffy pink robe. “Why didn't you go on a second date with the English teacher, though? He sounds hot, and nice.”

“I don't know,” Reid said, moving popcorn around the bowl and not eating it. “He was nice, but I just don't feel like I felt a spark with him. There should be a spark, right? There's science to support it, that an immediate synchronicity of dopamine production is experienced during initial romantic or sexual chemistry.”

Garcia took a handful of popcorn, eyes very obviously fixed on the television instead of him.

“Right?” he prompted.

“Maaaybe,” she said, elongating the word as she formulated her thoughts, “you didn't feel a spark with any of your dates because you've already had the spark.”

“With who?”

“Alejandro?”

Reid smiled. He thought that would have made everything simpler and so much worse at the same time.

“I don't think so, Garcia.”

“Then there's only one other option, isn't there? One expertly sculpted god of chocolate thunder.”

“You mean Morgan.”

“Of course I mean Morgan, please don't try and convince me you haven't had a thing for him for years. And I said I would apologise for this so here I am saying sorry, so so sorry, but I may have clued Morgan in to that fact.”

“You what?”

“I'm sorry! But he is totally into you too, I was trying to talk some sense into him when he was getting so obviously jealous about you and Alejandro.”

Reid laughed. It caught in his chest and he couldn't stop, it dislodged the bowl of popcorn from his lap, and Garcia had to catch it before it spread out over her floor.

“Why are you laughing?”

“It's just funny, know that Morgan knew how I felt and he still wanted to be friends with benefits.”

“Oh my god, you've slept with him. When? Reid, when?”

“The last time was, uh, an hour after Alejandro left?” Reid said, feeling humiliated. Morgan knew. He knew. “We had sex and he wanted to just be friends and I told him I was in love with him.”

“Oh, god.”

“And now he's gay,” Reid said, unable to stop his voice from cracking, “and he still doesn't want me.”

He felt childish, and selfish, but it was still true; after everything, after all Morgan's insistence and posturing, he'd managed to find his way to the other side of his internal struggle and Reid wanted so much to be happy for his friend, but he was drowning, left in his wake.

“Reid,” Garcia said gently, touching his wrist, but not stilling his hands which were twitching and drumming against his knees.”I'm sorry.”

“I know he's had it harder than I did, figuring it out. He's apologised, a really good one. I want to be able to think about the accountability and how much that took for him, to consider the guilt he's probably feeling, because I know he's a good man. But all I can think about is that we had to ruin any chance that'd we'd ever be something more for him to get there.”

“So, the romantic in me wants to say 'go to him' and then smash cut to a montage of you running to him as he's about to board a plane and making out in the airport,” Garcia says. It did manage to get a small laugh out of Reid. “But the grown-up, polyamorous me is too much of a believer in communication, so I'm gonna suggest you frickin' talk to Morgan about it, Junior G.”

“I know I should.”

“But you're afraid what the answer might be? That you two might be ships passing in the night?”

“I'm afraid that the clarity Morgan has now will mean he concludes I'm not a viable option.”

“Cmon, don't describe yourself as an option.”

“But I am, aren't I? It's almost guaranteed Morgan is going to do just as well with men as he did with women, I'd be a second-rate choice.”

“I'm gonna strangle you,” Garcia said, miming the motion with no real threat. “My guy, the torch Derek Morgan holds for you is Promethean.”

“Actually 'Promethean' is usually used to denote creativity and drive—”

“I was going for undying and you know it, Reid. Endlessly burning on for you while eagles eat his liver.”

Reid laughed again. He had to trust Garcia at least a little in this; she was Morgan's best friend, her read on him had a good chance of being correct. He knew he had to stop overthinking and just talk to Morgan.

“People like hurting each other but loving is not a waste.” - Ai Yazawa

Chapter Text

“I did not need to know if he could love me. I needed to know if he could need me.” - Jonathan Safran Foer

Derek Morgan looked more himself than he ever had, sitting opposite Reid with a slice of pizza – sausage, all the vegetables available, extra mushrooms and olives – halfway to his mouth, caught in a laugh.

“So, how's being gay?” Reid said, grin already pulling at his mouth.

“Thought there'd be more glitter and flags, the way Garcia's been telling it.”

It was so easy to slip back into this with Morgan; they'd been friends for so long, there was a foundation of something that had proved to be sturdier than Reid had thought. All that remained was to have a proper, adult conversation about recent events, as Garcia had reminded him. Several weeks ago.

There was no way to pretend otherwise; he was putting it off.

“But you're good, right?”

“Yeah. I'm in therapy.”

“It's helping?”

“It really is,” Morgan laughed again. “She's good at calling me on my bullshit.”

Morgan's gaze was lingering on him, in that intense kind of way that seemed reserved for Reid alone. Reid held the look; a query and a challenge. Morgan dropped his half-eaten slice of pizza back onto his plate.

“I'm in love with you.”

Oh, just like that.

“Right.” Reid nodded dumbly.

“I know it's a hell of a thing to say after everything I did, Reid. But you deserve to know. You can do what you want with it.”

Reid could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and it wasn't even about the other pizzeria customers who were very clearly listening to their conversation.

“No.”

“No?”

“You don't get to do that. You don't get to hand this off to me and make it my responsibility. It's more bullshit, Morgan. I don't want your measures hand, making amends, Reid's-made-of-glass overprotective macho-isms.”

Morgan looked genuinely startled, eyes wide like a frightened dog. It would have been funny if the whole thing was funny at all.

“I want you to want me, Morgan. If you're in love with me, I want it to be normal, before it all went to hell. I want you to show up at my apartment and kiss me, and then I want you to stay and sleep in my bed with me. I want you to want it, not stand there and wait for me to choose, because you've got it in your head that you have to sacrifice your own agency to make up for how you treated me. You apologised, you got help, you've done enough, Morgan. Choose me.”

After a long moment, Morgan got up from the table, and Reid let out a shaking exhale. He knew he'd have time later to be heartbroken and embarrassed that he'd poured his heart out, and Morgan was walking away. He would survive this.

Then in quick succession, Morgan moved around the table, took the back of Reid's head in his hand and nearly dragged him out of his seat with the force of the kiss he pulled him into.

Reid barely registered the gasps and murmurs around them, surging into the wildfire of it., reaching up to grab Morgan's shoulders to support himself. He'd lost his breath when they finally parted. Morgan grinned sheepishly at him.

“Maybe I should have waited until we finished our pizza, huh?”

---

Clooney went absolutely wild when he saw Reid cross the threshold into Morgan's house. Morgan caught him with a forearm braced around his chest before he could jump up, babying him.

“C'mon now boy, chill.”

Reid sidestepped the pair of them to go deposit their leftover pizzas in the kitchen.

“Does he always go bonkers when you come home?” Reid asked, having given the dog a scratch behind the ears while Morgan continued to hold him, before he was sequestered in the kitchen with his bed to calm down.

“Pretty much. But he's always craziest when you're here.”

“Why?”

Morgan shrugged.

“Guess he has the same tastes as me.”

“Great,” Reid said drying, checking his watch, “thirty seven minutes after you told me you're in love with me, you're telling me it's actually a polyamorous arrangement with your dog.”

“Christ,” Morgan barked, descending into a cackling laugh. “You got jokes tonight, huh?”

Morgan had been expecting what came next as the smile on Reid's faded, and he began to stim, fingers of one hand drumming against his thigh.

“Morgan, can we go over some things?”

“Yeah. You wanna sit?”

Reid shook his head, but gestured at the couch. Morgan sat down and began to unlace his boots. Reid needed to process, and maybe Morgan did too.

“I just need to clarify things, there's been some miscommunication between us before that I don't want to happen again.”

The understatement of the century, in Morgan's mind.

“Yeah, me either.”

“I'm in love with you, and you're in love with me.”

“Yeah.”

“What happens now?”

Morgan considered him, considered Reid's words in the restaurant, about not waiting for Reid to make all the decisions. He'd chosen to be out, he's chosen not to hide any more, he chose Reid.

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

Reid was rocking a little, stimming increased, attempting to self-regulate. Morgan hoped it was okay to think it was kind of adorable.

“So we're dating. I mean, yes, I absolutely will be your boyfriend. We''re dating, then. We're a couple. We're romantically involved.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and yes.”

“Okay,” Reid said, exhaling a long, deliberate breath through his nose. He started to smile. “Okay.”

Reid crossed the room and climbed into Morgan's lap, claimed his mouth softly, elegant hands holding his neck, thumbs at the edge of his jaw.

“Now,” Morgan breathed, as he let Reid pepper kisses on his lips. “Do you wanna go slow? Coffee dates, dinners, build up? You're rushing first base right now, kid.”

“Morgan, your penis has already been inside me.”

“Three times.”

“I want to do all those things with you, but I don't need it to go slow.”

Reid made his point by beginning to unbutton his shirt, and Morgan touched every inch of skin revealed to him, rough fingers bringing Reid up in goosebumps. He traced around one pink nipple, then flicked his thumb over it experimentally. Reid gasped and arched into the contact.

“You like that?”

Reid had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, and god that was hot. Morgan pinched firmly at Reid's nipple to see if he could make him arch again.

“You're sensitive.”

Reid leaned forward, smiling coyly. He kissed Morgan again as his hands found their way under his shirt. Reid scraped his nails ever so lightly against Morgan's sides as he pulled his shirt off over his head, making him shiver. Reid mirrored his own action, thumb brushing one of his nipples. Morgan's head dropped back against the sofa.

“So are you, it seems.”

“Yeah, uh,” Morgan gestured at himself weekly. “Kinda am.”

Reid was lightly thumbing both his nipples now, and Morgan could feel heat pooling fast in his belly, and lower. Their kisses turned deep, languid, leaving them both breathless.

Undressing was a task, when neither of them wanted to stop kissing. Eventually Reid was naked under him, pressed into the plush leather of his couch.

“Hey,” Morgan murmured into Reid's neck, beside his ear. “Can I suck you off?”

“Yes, yes.”

Morgan kissed his way down Reid's neck and chest, manoeuvring Reid so he could kneel between his knees. His cock was hard against his belly; it twitched as Morgan gazed at it. Morgan licked his lips, considering.

“You don't have to,” Reid said quietly, reaching down to touch Morgan's face. Morgan leaned his cheek into Reid's palm, turning to kiss it.

“I want to, just, never done it before. Would be a damn shame for a dramatic love confession to be followed up by a crappy blowjob.”

He wrapped his fist around Reid's length; this he knew, had done this to him before. He leaned over and kissed the swollen glans, felt the warmth of it against his lips. Above him, Reid sighed, eyes fluttering closed.

He'd never done it before, but he knew what he liked, and he knew he wanted to make it good for Reid. He sucked the head of his cock into his mouth, feeling the weight of it on his tongue. He give an experimental suck.

“Morgan, yes,” Reid breathed. Encouraged, Morgan did it again, took a little more between his lips, sucking enthusiastically. Reid's hand, that had been lingering about his face, cradled the back of his skull; Morgan found he didn't mind.

“Can you, ah—” Reid breathed, and Morgan looked up; it felt electric, looking at Reid's face, the heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth slack with pleasure. He pulled back, sucking as he went, until he came off Reid's cock with an obscene pop.

“C'mon pretty boy, tell me what you want.”

He wanted to make Reid feel good, and if that meant following directions then he could do that.

“Can you use your tongue?”

“Sure,” Morgan said, waggling his tongue at Reid for good measure.

“I mean the tongue thing you do, but, ah, on my dick.”

“Oh, yeah!” Morgan opened his mouth and demonstrated, rolling and undulating his tongue. Reid's head dropped back against he back of the sofa.

He took Reid's cock back into his mouth, savoured the taste of it, stronger now with how aroused he was. He rolled his tongue against the sensitive head, and Reid groaned, deep and low from his belly. That went straight to Morgan's own cock, which he palmed idly with the hand that wasn't pressing a thumb into the inside of Reid's thigh.

He fell into a rhythm, bobbing his head to take more of Reid, using all his tongue tricks, to see what reaction they would get. There was a strange kind of euphoria in how much fun Morgan was having, no shame or worry as he knelt there.

“Morgan, ah, hey,” Reid said, the hand that was on the back of his guiding Morgan off his cock. “I'm really close, you can use your hands.”

“And if I want you to come in my mouth?”

Morgan thought Reid might have been embarrassed by the noise he made if he had any computing power to spare, but instead he just blinked rapidly.

“Reid?”

“Only if you want to.”

Morgan grinned and set back to task, sucking Reid eagerly. Both of Reid's hands ended up on his head, not forceful, but eager.

It was pretty obvious when Reid came from the way his back bowed, the moans falling from his mouth, the feel of his cock pulsing at the back of his tongue. Reid's release was thick and a little bitter, and Morgan's cock twitched as he swallowed it.

“Morgan,” Reid panted, as he kissed along the length of him, onto his belly. “You're really good at that.”

“Yeah?”

“I'm considering what you'd be like with more experience, and, well, I've measured my own refractory period at an average of six to eight minutes, which is lower than the statistical average, and I think imagining that possibility could reduce it even further.”

“Damn, Reid.”

Morgan stood, feeling the distant twinge of the old knee injury as he straightened up, his hard cock bouncing comically in front of him.

“Let's go to bed, test your theory.”

---

The weight of Morgan at his back, wrapped around him in the soft cotton sheets of Morgan's frankly huge bed might just have been the best feeling in the world. He'd wanted this for so long, and finally they'd gotten here, through hard work and will. Morgan kissed his shoulder, and pulled him even closer against his warm body.

“Will you stay?” Reid asked softly.

“I love you,” Morgan said, voice thick with half-sleep. “But it's my house, so of course I'm staying. I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you mean.”

Reid laughed, tucking his face into the pillow in his embarrassment.

“I love you, too.”

Reid closed his eyes, taking in everything about this moment: the warmth of Morgan's body, the sturdiness of him, the lingering phantom feeling of Morgan's cock inside him.

He was pulled from the edge of sleep by the harsh sound of Morgan's phone ringing into the quiet, vibrating on the bedside table. It wasn't work; he didn't recognise the tone.

“Shit,” Morgan said, as he reluctantly pulled himself away from Reid to answer it. “Derek Morgan, who is this?”

Morgan went very still all of a sudden, stilling in the darkness of the room.

“Hey, hey, Gregory, calm down. Are you sure?”

Reid moved to turn on the lamp. Blinking against the light, Morgan looked at him, worry plain on his face.

“Okay, you're okay. Get your mom to call the police, okay? Yeah, yeah, I won't hang up, just give me a second, okay?”

Morgan held the phone against his chest.

“York?” Reid said in hushed tones.

“Gregory thinks he's seen him outside his house. Can you call the Bureau and get them to call the Iowa State Pen?”

Reid nodded, already on his own phone as he went to find his clothing, his heart beating hard in his chest.

“Whenever we give up, leave behind, and forget too much, there is always the danger that the things we have neglected will return with added force.” - Carl Jung

Chapter Text

“But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.” - Margaret Atwood

Things had gone to shit before they touched down in Iowa. It’s a very Morgan turn-of-phrase, but it feels apt to Reid.

It was confirmed on the plane that James York managed to escape from prison during a prison riot, possibly with help from one of the guards. An absolute nightmare that pulled focus from the manhunt with all the questions of how and why someone like York had that kind of pull in prison; by the time the BAU turned up at Gregory Taylor’s house, the house cordoned off and all the tell-tale signs of an impending hostage negotiation.

“York’s inside with Gregory Taylor,” the lead detective said even before any greeting to the gathered profilers.

“How?”

“He broke in while Mrs Taylor was on the phone to the police.”

“Have your team make sure our technical analyst Penelope Garcia has access to that call.”

“Already got someone on it. Mrs Taylor’s alive, but she had to be sedated. It sounded like Gregory told her to leave, that he wanted to be with York.”

“He doesn’t,” Morgan said. “He wouldn’t have called me if he was happy York showed up.”

“But he does know York,” Prentiss said, “as his one confirmed surviving victim, he has more knowledge than anyone else about how he operates. If he managed to convince York to let his mother go, he saved her life.”

“He’s going to want to talk to Reid again,” Morgan said, confirming what everyone was already thinking. Reid held Morgan’s gaze a few seconds longer than he needed to, hoping to convey in a single moment something to acknowledge the breadth of where they were; they were finally happy, they had finally found each other, and now Reid was going to have to face York again.

“I can convince him to send Gregory out,” Reid said.

“You think it’ll be that easy?” The police captain looks sceptical.

“He’s in an unfamiliar location. His intent was probably to kidnap Gregory; if he’d have got him to a secondary location, we’d be at a distinct disadvantage in terms of the playing field, but given that he’s been intercepted, we actually—”

Sudden and distinct chatter over the radio cut Reid short, as the captain checked his radio.

“What? How the hell did he manage that? Are the roadblocks up?”

“What’s happened?” Hotch demanded, voicing the sinking feeling Reid felt like lead in his stomach.

“York’s escaped with Gregory.”

“You didn’t have eyes on him?”

“The boy’s windows are blacked out, we traced them through the house and thought they were there.”

“Did we have Houdini on the cards for this guy?” Rossi says, no real humour to it.

“More like police incompetence,” Morgan snapped.

“Hey, we’ve got roadblocks up, he’s not gonna get far.”

“Still gives him plenty of time to kill Gregory, or worse.”

“Morgan,” Hotch said warningly, but the captain did visibly blanch. Reid wanted desperately to reach out and grab Morgan’s arm, to smooth his hand over where Morgan’s was balled into a fist, but there was no time for it when Morgan’s phone started to ring.

“It’s Gregory,” Morgan said, looking at the caller ID. Hotch had rung out to Garcia as soon as Morgan’s phone started ringing, and nodded at him.

“Gregory?” Morgan said, and put the call on loudspeaker. Reid watched Prentiss using the sheer power of eye contact to remind the LO to keep quiet.

“You must be Derek,” came York’s voice on the line. Reid steadied himself, not to let the sudden dread he felt show. “We need to talk. You’ve been interfering with my boy.”

“Gregory isn’t your boy.”

“I’ve got him, don’t I? I know you’ll trace this call, I’m not stupid. But if I see cops, if I hear sirens, I am going to gut him. Much too fast for my liking, but just seeing him, ah, it brings back such good memories.”

“What do you want, York? What do you want, for you to release him?”

“Ah, ah, we’re not negotiating over the phone. I’ll leave it on, though, so you know where I’m going. Once we’re there, you come talk to me alone. Unarmed, obviously. Actually, bring Spencer with you.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“I think it is. But if you want to leave me alone with Gregory, that’s on you.”

The line went dead.

“Son of a bitch.”

“We can’t send you in with him unarmed,” Hotch said, pretty convincingly, too; but Reid knew it was all but a moot point. Hotch had known them for a long time, and he knew neither of them were going to leave a child with a serial rapist and murderer. He supposed Hotch had to put up the front of fighting them a little on it, but they all knew there was a terrible inevitability to the thing.

They made the preparations in line with some pantomime of them having any control over the parameters around the confrontation, with the goal to get Gregory out alive. After that, Reid knew they’d be beholden to their own skills and quickness to survive.

They traced him to a disused warehouse, standing sentinel on fallow land. There was no cover like a warehouse in a busy city district might offer, no way for them to mask their approach. While the SWAT team tried to plan for the inevitable signal, Hotch watched the two of them securing their kevlar vests.

“Why hasn’t he killed Gregory, already?” he posed – not for lack of understanding the profile, but to make sure Morgan and Reid remembered it. “Or disappeared with him?”

“Gregory is his legacy,” Morgan said. “If he’s found out I was trying to help him, then he thinks I’m interfering with that. It’s only a legacy if Gregory is broken, if Gregory turns out like him.”

“So he wants to punish you, which is why he’s decided to focus on you, instead of Reid.”

Morgan shook his head. “Maybe, but he’s a pure sadist. Sure it was about him taking what he wants from his victims because he thinks he deserves anything he wants, but it’s sexual, the ideology was always a secondary justification, like a way he could sell people on his motive, y’know? Twisted as it is, people understand the whole ‘man so entitled to do what he wants he kills’ more than just that he gets off killing kids.”

“It’s still about Gregory,” Reid offered. “About salvaging his legacy. But the timeline has shortened, because he couldn’t get away clean with him. We can’t risk waiting him out any more, and him seeing murdering Gregory as the last way to preserve his legacy. Leaving him alive the first time was a calculated act, he knew there would be an impact either way and didn’t choose to let him live out of mercy.”

An old dirt path led to the warehouse; a lonely road for Morgan and Reid to set off down, leaving behind their team and the police presence. Reid knew they would try and approach once they’d engaged York, hopefully distracting him. They’d try to get SWAT in place after that, maybe a sniper if they could get an angle.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Morgan said.

Reid nearly smiled. “Bit of a pot-kettle situation there.”

“I know. But I won’t let him put his hands on you again.”

Reid decided not to correct him that it had been York’s feet that had done the touching, though the joke might have distracted him from the rising panic in his belly. He’d done stupider things than this, or at least in the same wheelhouse, he’d seen Morgan take risks too. But there was something about the approach, less than a day after the universe had seemed to allow them a moment of reprieve and happiness that gave the whole scenario a sombre, fated feeling.

“I love you.”

He didn’t look at Morgan. Morgan didn’t look at him.

“I love you too.”

---

“We’re here,” Morgan announced on the warehouse floor, as the pair of them surveyed their surroundings. Dusty, empty, poorly lit, motes of dust dancing in the few sunbeams creeping through the old metal and wood. “Let Gregory go.”

On the dusty floor in a narrow sunbeam coming through the ceiling, a length of rope and a hunting knife took centre stage.

“I think he should stay,” York said, voice projected from a gangway running the length of the warehouse main floor, about fifteen feet up. “It’ll be educational, since you’ve decided you can mess around with my boy’s mind. He stopped writing to me, and I had to find out why. He’s told me all about you, telling him lies about how he can be a happy little faggot.”

Morgan tried to make him out, but he was only a frightening silhouette, his elbow at an angle where it was slung around Gregory that Morgan knew he had a knife to the kid’s throat.

“He’s not your boy,” Morgan repeated. “You’re not his boy, Gregory.”

“Well I thought, who is this man, who thinks he knows better than me? But I figured that’s not it at all. You wanna be me so bad, don’t you, Derek? Well, then maybe you can be half the man I am. Show me, show Gregory, and I’ll let him live.”

“Show him what?” Reid asked. Morgan already had a sinking feeling, and was running through York’s MO in his head.

“Oh, Spencer!” York said, the lechery in his excitement apparent. “My sweet little fag. Real shame you’re not going to be one of mine, unless Derek here’s as weak as I think. Two at once does sound really good. Better prove me wrong, Derek. Better know your stuff. If not, I can remind you the proper way to handle a boy on mine up here.”

York abducted teenagers, instilled fear with the looming spectre of violence, and lied about reprieve for compliance, got off on repeatedly promising to stop and then hurting his victims anyway. He raped them, and cut them during, repeated the process over days, before eventually slitting their throats. All except for Gregory, whose face he slashed when he had decided to leave him as a legacy.

He met Reid’s gaze, holding it. He hoped, he prayed that Reid understood. Reid gave the minutest nod of his head.

“No,” Reid said, stumbling back. Morgan grabbed the rope off the floor and then lunged for Reid, knocking him to the floor. Adrenaline flooded through Morgan as he wrestled Reid’s wrists behind him to tie them; he could absolutely overpower Reid, but if Reid was actually trying to escape, it wouldn’t be this easy. He was making a good show of the struggle, but Reid understood where this was going. York wasn’t a genius, he hadn’t concocted a brilliant trap for them, he had only used the leverage he had to try and engage in as much violence as he could, violence he wanted to use to secure his legacy. They both knew it, and still there was no other choice for them to make; Reid knew that York meant for Morgan to enact his torture and violence on him, and knew it was the only thing they had to stall for time to save Gregory. They didn’t have the time to try and get up there, they didn’t have any way to reason with him to make him give himself up without this final indulgence.

All they had was Reid lying on the dusty concrete, looking up at Morgan with a fear he logically knew was feigned – at least feigned for Morgan’s intent, because it felt very real as Morgan took up the hunting knife and cut the fabric straps to Reid’s kevlar vest at the shoulders.

Morgan tried to quiet his mind and focus; thinking about Gregory being held by York, thinking about whether their team outside had advanced, he could influence none if it. All he could do was be distracting enough for someone else to choose the right moment. All he could do was cut Reid’s shirt open and reveal the pale expanse of his chest, rising and falling with his rapid breathing.

All he could do was hurt the person he’d promised he was done hurting.

“Get on with it,” York said. From beside him, Gregory whimpered in pain.

Morgan knew how to cut someone without inflicting fatal damage, but it was small comfort, because so did York. It was the whole point of his MO, to make his torture last for days. It still broke his world apart to slide the blade across Reid’s chest, to feel Reid strain under him, trying desperately to move away from the pain.

“No! Stop!”

Not so desperately that Morgan didn’t know it, he knew Reid could struggle more, and somehow the acquiescence was nearly as bad. But truly, the moment he knew he was destroying any hope that they had of a future was attempting to make the next cut fake, using Reid’s blood already on the knife to mark him as if he was cutting him. It was impossible with the jagged edge of the blade, leaving pinpricks of blood only. He drew the blade properly along the dotted line swiftly after, suddenly panicked that York would notice what he was trying to do and hurt Gregory.

He’d spent months and months hurting Reid, using him, and only to end up cutting him open. Preparing to have to rape him, or maybe instead drive the knife through he own neck and damn Gregory to a similar violent death.

The cuts were as shallow as he could make them, with a hand that shook. Reid still sobbed below him, still protested, but didn’t beg even as rivulets of blood ran over his chest and across his ribcage, soaking the remains of his shirt and the concrete below. It stained Morgan’s knees, and his hands. He couldn’t tell him it would be okay, even as a comforting lie. He was pretty sure things were never going to be okay again.

“Hurry up!” York shouted. He sounded breathless and excited. “You don’t have days like I took. Show me you’re worthy of being me! Show him how I took everything I deserved!”

There was the problem; they had reached the limits of what Morgan could do. Getting hard wasn’t even a possibility; the last time Morgan had felt as dissociated from his body was on a creaking sofa in a lakeside cabin.

Maybe Reid realised they’d come to the end of the line too, because his sobbing subsided into little hiccups, all the panic gone as he looked up at Morgan, the weight of their impending failure settling over them.

“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispered.

“You don’t get to be sorry!” York yelled from on high. “You’re a man, you’re me, you take what you deserve! There’s nothing these crying little fa—”

Reid would know the statistics when it came to survival based on fall height. As it was, the clatter of something along the metal gangway, then a fifteen or so foot drop followed by an audible, sickening crack made Morgan immediately doubt that the statistics were relevant. The blood bubbling from a hole in the back of York’s head with the last few beats of his heart was pretty definitive, too.

Morgan wasn’t sure who had taken the shot – the tension of the thing was broken immediately, as police swept in from every direction, their footfalls heavy and their shouts loud.

“Medic.” Morgan said. Reid whimpered as Morgan got off him, dropping hard onto his backside in the blood beside them. Reid’s blood. “Medic!”

“All causes shall give way: I am in blood, stepp’d in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.” - William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Chapter Text

“It was such a relief to be right even though you knew you only got there by trying every possible way to be wrong.” - Terry Pratchett

Prentiss was the one who rode in the ambulance with Reid, at Hotch’s insistence despite Reid’s protests. He realised shortly before the EMTs that despite the blood pouring down his chest, he wasn’t badly hurt, and the sirens felt a bit like overkill as the EMT in the back with them tried to stem the bleeding.

“Who took the shot?” he asked, for something to distract him from the stinging pain starting to manifest as the adrenaline levelled out.

“One of the SWAT team.”

“While he still had hold of Gregory?”

“Kinda,” she said, picking at the nails on one hand, to stop her biting them. “It happened pretty fast; Gregory struggled, he was at arms length when they shot York. They saw their moment.”

“He could have fallen with him.”

“Yeah, but that’s for them to debrief. Morgan stayed with him, to make sure he’s okay. Kid’s been through hell.”

Prentiss looked at him like she was expecting a reaction to Morgan not insisting he be the one in the ambulance with Reid. But just like years ago when he was being chemically hosed down after being exposed to anthrax, he didn’t want Morgan with him; it was too vulnerable, and he knew the burden of guilt Morgan was probably already putting on himself over what transpired. He knew Morgan would be tearing himself apart either way, but something about Morgan seeing him continue to bleed, and seeing the EMT struggle to stem the flow unsettled him; he wasn’t sure he hadn’t already lost Morgan.

It only took an hour or so for the doctors in the ER to put fifteen stitches in the deepest gash on his chest, dress the rest, and discharge him. The team came by to check on him, making the arrangements to fly back to Quantico as soon as they could, instead of staying for the night. Even after not wanting Morgan to see the immediate aftermath of their ordeal, he was still surprised that he didn’t show up part way through, as some form of punishment for himself, to bear witness to what his hands had done. When he finally appeared in the exam room, Reid was gingerly trying to put on a t-shirt.

“Hey,” he said. “Is Gregory okay?”

Morgan stood against the closed door, not approaching any further.

“As good as he can be. I think he’s gonna be alright.”

“So am I, Morgan,” Reid said, turning so Morgan could see his chest before he managed to get the t-shirt over his head. “I only needed fifteen stitches.”

“Only?” Morgan asked, his voice deep, near-breaking, taking a tentative step forward.

“Yes, only.”

It was devastating, the things Morgan couldn’t hide on his face. Sometimes when he’d been pushed this far, he didn’t know how much his eyes betrayed.

“And what if the team hadn’t taken York out in time?” Another step to close the distance, before he stopped short a few paces away. “What If I’d had to—”

“What, rape me?”

Morgan flinched. Reid knew it would get a reaction, and maybe even knew it was cruel. But even in that moment he could feel things spiralling away from them, lost in Morgan’s guilt and his self-burden over everything that had happened between them.

“Morgan, you wouldn’t have consented any more than I did. If we’d got there, we’d have done what we had to do to buy time and save Gregory. We both know that. I knew what was happening, I complied. Just like you cutting me, you hurting me wasn’t harming me.”

“What’s the difference? I hurt you.”

“The difference is I say so. I’m not a child, as the injured party I actually get to decide whether you harmed me, you don’t get to define that for me. You don’t get to use that to end what we are before we’re anything.”

The way that caught Morgan off guard, Reid knew he was right to assume that Morgan had been gearing up for an ending, a grand self-sacrifice of his own happiness as absolution for what he’d done. Reid couldn’t bear it – it wasn’t just Morgan’s happiness, now.

“I cut you, Reid.”

“So? Morgan, I’ve done a good job calling you on your bullshit, on your shitty behaviour recently, do you really think if I felt, I don’t know, betrayed, afraid, I wouldn’t tell you?”

“Would you?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. He felt surprisingly calm, in the face of an uncharacteristically edgy, frightened Morgan. “So you either trust me, and trust me to name my own feelings, or you go ahead and use this as an excuse to walk away. After everything. But you have to do it, I won’t. Is that what you want?”

Reid was not about to let Morgan lay ending things at his feet, like he’d tried to do when he confessed that he loved him. It wasn’t something he could really begrudge him in the moment, it wasn’t a domestic squabble over chores or their relationship, and he couldn’t bring himself to be angry over it; he could see his blood under Morgan’s fingernails. He knew he’d be struggling if their roles were reversed.

“No,” Morgan said. His voice sounded so small. “But I don’t wanna hurt you any more.”

Reid stepped forward, and took Morgan’s face in his hands.

“Hurt isn’t harm,” Reid reiterated. “We saved a child today, Derek. You and me, because we trusted each other, and even though it was a terrible thing we had to do, we didn’t do it because, I don’t know, God or the universe is conspiring against us, or against you being happy. We did it because it was our only option, and it distracted him, and stopped him from hurting that boy any more. That boy who gets to heal and live a life because of us. Because you hurt me.”

Reid used his thumbs to wipe the tears that were beginning to fall down Morgan’s cheeks. He hoped he’d said the right thing, and he hoped Morgan believed him; he truly wasn’t sure what he’d do if it all fell apart now.

“I love you so much, Spencer.”

When Morgan wrapped his arms around him, he was shaking. Reid pulled him to a kiss, and let his hands snake around his neck to cradle his head.

---

It was raining when they got to Reid’s apartment, beating against the windows. He didn’t feel much calmer after the jet ride, the debrief, the ride home – maybe less like vaguely contemplating eating his gun, replaced with a bone-deep anxiety that thrummed through him, demanding something he didn’t know how to satisfy.

It felt like a lifetime ago, when Morgan had come up to Reid’s apartment and found him contemplating a bottle of dilaudid. A lifetime ago that he’d kissed him, a lifetime ago that he’d turned his whole sense of being upside down.

“I think about that night, after Bottineua County,” Reid said, as he locked his apartment door. Morgan leaned against the hallway wall, right where he’d first crowded Reid and kissed him. It would seem he wasn’t the only one thinking about it.

“Yeah?”

“You made me use my words, be clear about what I wanted,” Reid said, turning on the spot, considering Morgan. “You weren’t gentle.”

Morgan’s stomach jolted with guilt. “Reid—”

“Don’t misinterpret me,” Reid said firmly, holding Morgan’s gaze. “This is not a criticism. It was everything I wanted, what I needed. I wanted to get high, and you made me feel like I was on fire. I know before I said you didn’t help me that night, but it’s not really true. You gave me what I needed; you kept me from a relapse.”

Morgan waited. Reid may have talked him down at the hospital, but he was still battling the guilt of knowing under the ill-fitting hospital t-shirt, Reid’s chest was marred with the injuries he’d inflicted on him.

“You’re not okay, but I am. I know you’re having a hard time believing it, but I’m really okay. Tell me what you want, Derek Morgan.”

“I want—”

Morgan had no idea why he felt so scared – delayed adrenaline and emotion after he’d tamped it all down, gone from Reid bleeding under him to making sure Gregory was okay, that he had the resources he needed to accept the closure of York’s death, to make sure—

Reid had moved closer while Morgan’s thoughts slipped sideways.

“What do you need, Derek?”

“I need you, Spencer. I need, I need – God, I’m sorry.”

Reid crowded him up against the wall, and claimed his mouth firmly, surely. Reid had never been passive, but Morgan had at least met him halfway, there had been a little tussle and fight to it. But he felt helpless, and unanchored, and not scared of the way Reid was kissing him, of his fingers at his belt, but there was a deep undercurrent of fear coursing through him that he didn’t know how to stop, confused even more as his body responded to Reid’s carnal proximity.

“I want to take care of you,” Reid said, kissing along his jaw, as his long fingers grazed over the erection straining his trousers. “Tell me what I can do.”

“I want you. I need you.”

Reid leaned back, finding Morgan’s gaze. “Need you to use your words.”

His own words from the first time they’d tumbled into bed together reflected back on him made his knees feel weak. All at once, the shape of his unfamiliar desire formed in his mind, as Reid’s fingers found the bare skin low on his stomach, above his belt.

“I need you to fuck me, Spencer. Please, I want you, I want you.”

In the bedroom, Morgan let his mind go quiet as Reid took control, as he deepened the kiss and stripped him of his clothes. When Reid stripped off his t-shirt to reveal his pale chest and the six nearly symmetrical cuts, three on each side, less symmetrical butterfly strips dotted over them – the second one he inflicted after trying to fake it held closed with stitches, too – Morgan dropped down heavily onto the end of the bed. Later, he might wonder if Reid had positioned him there in anticipation of it.

Reid didn’t let the moment linger, didn’t let the guilt rise again as he ushered Morgan up the bed and climbed onto it with him, kneeling between his legs, a prelude to what was to come.

“You still with me, Morgan?”

Morgan took a steadying breath. “Yeah.”

“Do you still want me to fuck you?”

Morgan nodded, holding Reid’s gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might,” Reid said, as he stroked his hands along the insides of Morgan’s thighs. “If you’re acquiescing to this because you think you deserve to be hurt.”

“Reid, it’s not like that,” Morgan said, but felt ashamed anyway for the near-accuracy of the bead. “I promise, I’m not… I’m not trying to make you punish me. I just, I want to feel your heart beating inside me.”

Any other time it would have been corny, they would likely have devolved into laughter and gone from there. But here, on the edge of near-death and the gaping abyss of the pain he’d inflicted on the man he loved, Morgan wanted to give himself to Reid.

Reid looked at him so softly, like it was poetry instead of cliché. He leaned down and kissed him, holding his jaw in those long fingers, his tongue pressing forward when Morgan went pliant and easy again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever felt less in control in the bedroom, but he also could feel the anxiety that had shaken his bones for the past hours finally, finally starting to melt away in increments.

He lifted his hands and slotted his arms under Reid’s, spreading his hands across Reid’s back, keeping them close. Reid carefully lowered himself down so they were chest to chest – Morgan could feel the coarse thread of the stitches pressing against him, but after a moment he could also feel Reid’s heartbeat. He couldn’t fight the low groan into Reid’s mouth; Reid took the opportunity to deepen the kiss.

When Reid pulled away and sat back on his knees Morgan reached for him in protest. Reid smiled and dragged his knuckles along Morgan’s cock, laying hard and heavy against his stomach. He was so distracted by those long fingers he didn’t even notice that Reid had managed to find and uncap the lube one handed, unaware until he made a show about squeezing some out onto his finger.

Morgan took a slow breath in, steadying the buzz of nervous excitement it inspired in him. Maybe a little fear, if he wanted to name the thing in its entirety – aside from a few aborted self-exploratory touches, and completely disregarding the thing he refused to think about at that moment, he’d never done anything intimate with that part of himself.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

Morgan nodded. Despite the fear, he shifted his hips as Reid’s hand lowered, making it easier for the slick finger to find the skin behind his balls, then lower. It didn’t hurt when Reid pushed his finger inside, but the shock of it made him flinch and gasp.

“Derek?”

“I’m okay.”

Reid pushed in further, and crooked his finger. Morgan’s hips jolted and he grunted at the sudden whip-crack of sensation.

“Too much?” Reid asked, looking a little concerned but not without a smile playing at his mouth.

“Yeah, I mean no, don’t stop.”

Reid turned the pad of his finger in tiny circles inside him, pressing against his prostate. Academically Morgan knew his anatomy, he knew theoretically it could feel good, but the immediacy of it had knocked the wind out of him. It felt incredible, his body squeezing around Reid’s finger, turning circles over his most sensitive spot, entirely given over to the whims of Reid’s favour.

Whims, they were not. Reid’s free hand stroked languidly along Morgan’s cock as he continued to move his finger, letting the precome gathering at the tip begin to smooth each stroke. Once he was satisfied that Morgan was present and eager, it was as if he allowed himself to indulge fully in the task at hand. The way Reid looked at him studiously, watching for his reactions on his face and the rest of his body, repeating motions, trying to elicit repeat sounds – it was both incredibly sexy, and felt incredibly comforting.

Reid loved him. Even on the other side of the terrible thing he’d had to do, Reid was here, and taking him apart piece by piece, fixing something he couldn’t do alone.

Two fingers was an adjustment, but with none of the discomfort he’d braced for – the feeling of incredible fullness threatened to tip him over the edge.

“Reid, Reid!”

“Morgan?”

“I’m okay, shit, I’m good. I’m getting close.”

“You’re very sensitive.”

Morgan finally managed a weak laugh. “Apparently. Sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Reid chided with no actual firmness to it. “Does it feel good?”

“Yeah. Really good.”

“I am going to to fuck you now,” Reid said, as he thrust his fingers gently in and out of Morgan, avoiding his prostate. “Because you asked me to, and I want to. But I’m excited at the prospect of making you orgasm on my fingers, in the near future.”

“That so?”

“Yes. I want to make you feel good.”

He withdrew his fingers slowly, palming Morgan’s balls and giving his cock a few twisting strokes. Reid leaned over for the bedside draw, and Morgan caught his wrist, bringing the hand instead to his mouth and kissing the palm.

“No condom.”

“Derek,” Reid breathed. Morgan could feel Reid’s cock, hard and pressed into the crease of his thigh beside his own.

“I get tested every six months. And there’s been nobody else but you since this all started, Spencer.”

“Me too. Tested, I mean. Obviously, I had a lot of sex with Alejandro between then and now.” Reid grimaced, as Morgan murmured a laugh into his palm between kisses. “Probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Nothing I didn’t already know. If you’re not down for that yet—”

“I am. I want to. If you’re sure?”

“Fuck me, pretty boy.”

Reid was not the skinny waif of a guy he’d met all those years ago. Well, he was still plenty skinny, but he was stronger – extended time on crutches had given him strong arms, and Morgan felt incredibly safe under him. He planted one hand on the bed, arm under Morgan’s thigh to hold his leg up, to give himself room to line his lubed cock up and press into Morgan. Morgan tipped his head back and groaned from low in his belly. It was so much more than fingers, a little uncomfortable – but a good ache, not quite painful.

More importantly, a thing he wouldn’t truly comprehend until much later, all he could think about was that feeling, of his body opening up to Reid, of the steady, firm stretch – no other memories could find hold there, while Reid pressed his body flush against him. Reid moved his leg onto his shoulder, really opening him up, and gave a testing shallow thrust of his hips.

“Oh, damn, damn!” he managed, in place of coherence.

Morgan reached for any part of Reid he could find, a hand spread over the back of his neck, the other at his chest, the stitched cut under his thumb. For a moment Morgan’s throat tightened, but Reid found his pace then, and he simply didn’t have the capacity for guilt and pleasure at the same time.

The pleasure won – Reid looked incredible, flush creeping all the way down his neck, tousled hair falling about his face as he made love to him – more poetry. It was dizzying, how full he felt, how complete, how right it was.

The rain pounded on the window as Reid fucked him, slow and languid, than faster, rougher, a tide between the two, forward and back, over and over. Too soon and not soon enough, Morgan could feel everything tightening, everything cresting towards too sensitive, too good.

“Spencer, I’m gonna come, don’t stop.”

Reid did as bid, adjusted his other hand behind Morgan’s knee to hold him open as he sped up again, fucking Morgan through the coiling tension of the thing until Morgan came with a shout, screwing his eyes shut as it pulsed through him, making a mess over his belly without any touch to his cock.

Reid eased Morgan’s legs down, without withdrawing. He was panting, hips jerking minutely, looking at Morgan hungrily as his hands stroked along his thighs.

“Don’t pull out,” Morgan said, before Reid could think to do it. “Fuck me. Come in me, baby boy.”

Being fucked post-orgasm, as his body spasmed and shook was a whole new set of sensations, the pleasure of the edge of overstimulation, but so good. Reid’s thrusts turned erratic, breath somewhere between a huff and a grunt as he came, grinding his hips forward in a way that made Morgan moan deeply.

Reid collapsed unceremoniously onto his chest, breathless, and Morgan could feel Reid’s heartbeat inside him. He wrapped his arms around him, as Reid peppered little kisses on what he could reach of his chest. Morgan wasn’t sure he’d ever felt cherished like this before.

“You okay?” Reid said eventually, resting his chin on his arm that was slung across Morgan’s chest.

“I am. I am okay. You got me there.”

“And you’re staying?”

No shame or fear raised its head at all the possibility laced into the question.

“I’m staying.”

Reid hummed contentedly, and Morgan reached up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear.

“I’m staying as long as you’ll have me.”

The tension was finally broken enough for Reid to look a little bit embarrassed at the impending cliché of it all – even if it was well deserved for both of them, after everything – ducking his head to kiss Morgan’s chest again.

“Forever, then.”

“I love you also means I love you more than anyone loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that no one loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that I love no one else, and never have loved anyone else, and never will love anyone else.” - Jonathan Safran Foer