Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“ It will become fine dust over all the land of Egypt, and will become boils breaking out with sores on man and beast through all the land of Egypt. ” Exodus, 9:9

As one of the nation’s most skilled profilers, Spencer Reid traveled quite a bit. Police departments nationwide demanded his unique skillsets to crack some of their toughest, most gruesome criminal cases, and his sleep schedule reflected that. He could barely remember the last time he had gotten a solid eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Between the jet lag and the constant nightmares he tried his best to suppress, he rarely got a good night's rest – nowadays, he operated on a skewed ratio of sleep, coffee, and sugar. His circadian rhythm had given up after years of near-constant travel, so he opted instead to catch any sleep whenever he could. 

As such, he was thrilled to learn their next case was right here in DC. Over the years, he realized that working and living in the same area was a blessing. He always looked forward to the opportunity to sleep in his own bed between days of investigation whenever their cases were in the DC area. He might even be able to catch a few winks in the quiet of Garcia’s office – the woman always had a blanket waiting for him. If he was lucky, he might even be able to complete the paperwork from home with nothing but a cup of homebrewed coffee and some calming recordings of Carl Sagan’s lectures to keep him company.

The comforts of having home-field advantage certainly amplified his ability to work, but he always knew in the back of his mind that it meant people were getting hurt in his neighborhood. His moral compass had grown accustomed to balancing the distaste and delight at the prospect of a local case. He often wondered if he was becoming like Hotch – jaded, unsmiling, quiet. But such thoughts could not occupy his brain for long when his dysphoria was as intense as it was. 

He had gotten the text about the case early in the morning. The sun had barely risen over the horizon when the text alert jarred him from his restless slumber. Dust motes floated through a small beam of early sunlight when he wearily groped for his phone on the cluttered nightstand, the surface covered with a fine layer of dust from a lack of use. He squinted blearily at the screen – as far as he could tell, Hotch’s tone was about as urgent as it always was, so he didn't feel the need to scurry around the apartment and scoop bare essentials into his go bag.

He slung his skinny legs over the side of the bed, smiling softly at the pleasurable texture of the fuzzy rug between his toes. He wrinkled his nose at his foul breath as he yawned, stretching his willowy frame every which way and cracking his joints. He winced at the soreness of his chest, residual discomfort from years of binding with improper technique during his adolescence making his muscles twitch and jerk uncomfortably. Blearily, he buried all thoughts of bodily discomfort and envisioned the coffee maker and his quirky collection of mugs, saliva coating his tongue at the thought of some nice, warm coffee-

His blood froze to ice when he felt slick beads of liquid slide down his inner thigh when he stood up, any train of thought that had started to board in his mind vaporizing in an instant when that familiar stab of nausea and cramping gripped his abdomen.

No, please, no.

He swallowed deeply, his breath hitching as he quickly and gawkily waddled to the bathroom, trying to keep his legs closed tight. He flung the door open, dust shuddering off its frame, and frantically looked for his reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of the door. 

Blood dripped down his inner thigh, glistening in the stark, fluorescent light.

Fuck.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” he mumbled to himself, darting to the toilet and yanking off a long strand of toilet paper. He stared in disgust at the bloody wad of paper clutched in his spindly fingers moments later, waves of complicated emotion stewing deep in his sore chest. 

It had been a while since he had gotten a period. A long, long while.

With a sigh of exhausted defeat, he tossed the tissue into the bowl. Angrily, he scrubbed his face with his hands, taking deep breaths as he tugged on the roots of his hair, his bony elbows digging into his knees. That deep, familiar pang of dysphoria clawed at his mind, sending hot, snaking tendrils of disgust throughout his body, moving through his bloodstream like caustic quicksand. He felt like he was sinking, drowning in that impenetrable sea of negative thoughts that his quick mind was so adept at conjuring.

I knew I shouldn't have skipped doses, he thought reprimandingly. His endocrinologist had warned him to take his testosterone shots regularly since his very first appointment. Reid had raced to the nearest gender therapy clinic as soon as he was of legal age, chasing any opportunity to finally make his mind match his body. Since then, he had become a master at giving himself the hormone shot in his upper thigh and had adhered to his injection schedule religiously for almost a decade. 

Logically, he knew it was a medicine he had to take for the rest of his life, but the thought of his regular testosterone shots had started to conjure up gruesome memories that made him feel sick. Needles beckoned grisly imagery he tried to lock deep into the darkest corners of his mind. But each time he drew the thick liquid into the syringe, he remembered that horrific night in that freezing shed with Tobias Hankel, those shameful weeks of shooting up in the bathroom that followed, his secret stint at a rehab facility he had used all his vacation days for, and the grueling narcotics anonymous meetings he still attended. 

Every time he poised that testosterone needle over his thigh, he would remember the giddy rush of opiates his addictive brain ravenously craved to this day, and disgust and panic would stew deep in his gut. And so, he had skipped a dose or two. No big deal. On some dosing days, he could quell the bad memories, but on others, he just wasn’t strong enough to push that needle through his skin. Besides, he had faced menstrual periods before and survived, right?

He did not know if he could survive a run-in with Dilaudid again.

He shook his head fiercely and took a shuddering breath, focusing on the cold tile beneath his feet to ground himself. His hands trembled as he cleaned himself up, and he took steadying breaths as he averted his eyes from the carnage below. He reached up and clawed open the medicine cabinet, frantically digging around for anything that could stem his flow. 

After scattering half the cabinet's contents across the floor, he withdrew a singular, crinkled pantiliner wrapped in bright pink paper. It lay sadly in his hand like a fading memory in a dusty scrapbook. It was a testament to his ability to completely forget he was physically capable of menstruating if he didn't administer his hormone prescription correctly. It was also a testament to his inability to even remotely plan ahead when it came to his personal needs. Sure, he could map out a geographical profile before the jet had taken off, and he could definitely make sure the kitchenette in the BAU had enough of everyone’s favorite coffee or tea in stock, but God forbid he had the forethought to make sure he had some fucking pads in his own goddamn house-

He hadn’t realized how quick and shallow his breathing had gotten until he could barely hear the sharp ring of his cell over the blood pounding in his ears. In a panic, he hiked up his boxers and shuddered as the cold, wet spot of blood in the fabric pressed against his tender skin. He stumbled into the bedroom, tripping onto the bed and clawing at his phone to puff out a hasty greeting to whoever was on the other end.

“Morning, pretty boy,” a smooth voice purred, “where you at?”

Reid sputtered, eyes opening wide and heart hammering in his chest. He was completely unprepared to hear Derek Morgan’s low voice over his phone this early in the morning, especially when he was bleeding all over his boxers. Even though he knew the man was nowhere nearby, he blushed in shame, clutching a blanket to his skinny frame. 

He hated how some of that blush was because of that stupid, godawful pet name Morgan had started using-

“Reid? Hello?”

“Uh, hi,” Reid stammered, grimacing at the bloodstain on his sheets before struggling to his dresser and digging through his underwear drawer, “I’m at home, why?” 

“Well, get that big brain of yours to the BAU,” Morgan replied, his tone losing its cheeky spark with every word, “It’s about to get pretty crazy over here.”

Reid paused, shuffling his phone into the crook of his shoulder as he hastily changed into some more pad-appropriate underwear, squashing the swell of disgust in his chest at the feminine fit, “What d’ya mean?”

The agent on the other line went quiet for a moment, as if deliberating.

“Can’t say on the phone,” Morgan murmured in an urgent undertone, “But it’s…it’s bad, man.”

Reid froze. Few things made the talkative agent unable to elaborate on a case, and none of them were ever very good. “Oh.”

He could almost picture Morgan rubbing a worried hand over the stubble that lined that shapely jaw of his, gritting his perfect white teeth. “Have you left yet?”

Reid swallowed, looking around his messy bedroom and picking at his sweaty undershirt. “Almost, why?”

“Hang tight. I’m gonna come grab you.”

Fear filled Reid’s chest like boiling water. Of all people, Morgan couldn’t see him like this. He flew to the bathroom and snatched the ratty pantiliner off the sink. “No! That’s OK, I’m fine. I’ll catch the bus-”

“I really don’t want you going into any public places right now, Reid.” Morgan interrupted in a strained whisper, his tone gentle but offering no room for argument.

“Why not?” Reid demanded indignantly, adjusting the pantiliner and trying to ignore the murmurs of dysphoria in his ear.

He heard Morgan grumble. “I’ll tell you later, I just need you to trust me, OK?”

Reid sighed and pinched his nose, frustration gnawing at the corners of his voice. “I won’t be able to change your mind, will I?”

He could almost taste Morgan’s annoyingly perfect, cheeky smile, could nearly picture those charming dimples. “No, you won’t, pretty boy. I’ll be there in twenty.”

Morgan hung up before Reid could even respond. 

Reid’s cheeks felt warm. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and touched his face, annoyed to find it was flushed a bright red. He tried to hide it, deeply worried about how that stupid nickname the agent had been using recently could get him blushing like a teenager on a first date. The name had cropped up around the time Reid had cut his hair, and it had stuck in the doctor’s mind much more than he cared to admit. Realistically, he knew Morgan probably meant nothing by it — it was just one of the many nicknames the man gave to people he liked. Everyone at the BAU had one. 

But his powerful brain always sputtered to a halt whenever it left the agent’s lips, his overly caffeinated heart beating somehow faster at the thought of the name’s subtle potential. God knows how often he dared to dream that there was something more behind it, that the BAU’s resident charmer and pretty face could somehow have any sort of interest in his gawky, socially awkward self. Yet somehow, despite all logical thought telling him to be pessimistic, he couldn’t fight the grin blooming on his face.

He was smiling giddily at himself for about a minute before the gravity of his situation hit him. As if burned, he shot out of the bathroom and flew around the apartment, a hot fire of nausea, anxiety, and cramps clawing at his guts as he scurried to get ready. 

His already untidy apartment fell into further disarray as he frantically dug around for his favorite slacks and an oversized sweater, the ones he always wore when the mirror told him his hips were too broad and his chest was too noticeable. He grimaced as he shimmied into yesterday’s still-damp binder, wishing he had a clean, dry one on hand. 

The whisper in the back of his head grew louder when he saw his reflection. He itched to adjust, to pick and shift until the area was perfectly flat. But having a slightly rounder chest was much better than being fully exposed when Morgan came over. A darker part of him wanted to bitterly laugh at the idea of Morgan being completely shocked at the sight, but that sneering voice of dysphoria was already working hard to convince him that his secret was out at the BAU and everyone was merely tolerating him. 

Reid would take his secret to the grave if he had a choice. But much to his anxiety’s chagrin, the BAU’s very job was to uncover secrets, and he had some extraordinarily nosy coworkers. He knew they all had an unwritten policy of not profiling each other, but they were human, subject to curiosity. If any of them knew or thought ill of him for it, they hid it well. Even still, Reid worried the team had figured him out and were simply using him for his skills while secretly loathing him as a person.

But if Morgan, all charm, cheek, and chauvinism, invaded his home and found out about him right when Reid had finally earned his respect, he’d have no hope of doing anything about the massive, all-consuming crush he had been grappling with for the past few months—

With his toothbrush hanging from his mouth, he froze and frantically wondered if he had time to do his daily shower before that snarky agent could barge in. He really needed to get rid of that rank body odor, and he needed some semblance of a routine to stay sane. But nothing about today was proving predictable. 

As if on cue, a clot of blood plopped onto the pantiliner fighting for its life in his underwear.

He thunked his head against the medicine cabinet and pushed a strained sigh through tightly gritted teeth. Hot tears started to prick in his eyes. Today was really getting off to a great start.

Chapter Text

Derek Morgan gripped the wheel of the standard-issue FBI vehicle tightly as he weaved through rush-hour DC traffic. He drove in an uncharacteristic silence, filling the trip with his thoughts and leaving his phone and the radio off. He drummed on the steering wheel’s leathery fabric and restlessly chewed his lips. That familiar pang of anxiety started to gnaw at his stomach, urging him to drive faster.

Reid would make worried remarks about his driving habits if he was in the passenger seat. But today, Morgan didn’t care. He wanted to get to the dork’s dinky little apartment as soon as possible, even if it meant cutting a few people off and flicking on the vehicle’s emergency sirens just to get through red lights.

Few things unsettled the agent more than cases on their home turf. Sure, there was the benefit of going home and seeing Clooney between days of investigation, but he could never relax knowing people in his city were getting hurt. Even though he would forever be a Chicago boy, he had come to view DC as his home after years of working at the BAU. Something as dangerous as what had happened yesterday had no right to invade his new home, where his ragtag little family resided, where Reid resided.

That gnawing urge to keep Reid around had snuck its way into his heart faster than he could intercept it. What had started as a preference for being teamed up with the man during cases simply because he enjoyed his company had evolved into a burning desire to keep him safe and happy. It had bled into almost every aspect of his life – today was no different. As soon as he had watched an uncharacteristically frantic JJ sprint to Hotch’s office with a ghostly pale face and had overheard Hotch urgently conversing on the phone with someone he referred to as “General”, he had grabbed his keys and called Reid without a second thought.

He growled and shook his head, squinting to focus on the road. He didn't have time to think about how much the man had started to take up so much of his daily thought process recently. Right now, he had to obey the innate urge to get Reid in his sight, where he could keep him safe. If the nerd was within view, Morgan could make sure nothing happened to him. If he didn’t, that knot of anxiety that permanently lived in his chest would tighten, almost to a point where he would find it hard to breathe.

He had always respected Reid – it was hard not to be impressed by that level of genius, even when it was shoved in his face at every moment of the day. Morgan had always held an odd fascination for him, even when the man had a hard time mingling with the others when he had first started and when he had constantly used his smarts to make Morgan look bad. By all accounts, he and Reid were complete opposites. They had antagonized each other for the first few months – Reid felt threatened by Morgan’s physical and social prowess, and Morgan felt intimidated by the man’s unbelievable intellect. 

Of course, neither would ever admit that. 

Over time, they learned to work off one another – and they worked well. The younger had a spunk that matched Morgan’s brazenness in just the right ways. Reid realized Morgan was much more intelligent than he let on, preferring to keep his intellectual abilities subtle by deflecting with a snarky, flirtatious facade. Conversely, Morgan realized the younger had a quick tongue, a fiery sense of justice, and an increasingly deadly aim he had no issue using when it came to defending himself and those he cared about. Reid kept him grounded when he flew too high, and Morgan boosted his confidence when he stumbled. 

They began to seek each other out, displaying enthusiasm for their surprisingly shared hobbies like reading, movies, and chemistry. They laughed at each other’s jokes, eventually making some only they understood. They comforted each other when the nightmares stole sleep, and they defended each other when the circumstances of the job targeted them. Over time, that rivalry had evolved into respect, which was quickly evolving into affection.

And when Reid had finally chopped off that scraggly mop of his in favor of a messily styled “boyband” cut, as Hotch liked to put it, Morgan felt that affection start to sway towards something deeper, warmer, and very, very unprofessional. 

He drove faster. 

He made it to Reid’s complex with ten minutes to spare thanks to his excellent, if not slightly hazardous and very illegal, driving abilities. Lithely, he slipped out of the vehicle and donned his sunglasses, gazing up at the familiar brick facade. He licked dry lips as he stared at the building’s glass door, waiting to see Reid’s characteristically jerky gait, adorably soft smile, and doe-like brown eyes- 

He shook himself from his reverie when his Fitbit suddenly buzzed and congratulated him on getting his heart rate up. Puzzled, he squinted at the tiny screen, confused until he recognized those intrusive butterflies in his stomach and the involuntary grin that had taken up residence on his features.

He cleared his throat and ran a restless hand over his cropped hair. Those butterflies had no right to flutter around his guts when he knew the city was on the brink of disaster. He shook his head and folded his arms tightly across his chest, staring at the building’s entrance with a resolute frown.

He had only been to the man’s humble dwelling a few times, and even then he had only waited outside. Those were all well before that cheeky little voice in the back of his mind had started making quiet remarks about how good Reid looked, especially with that cute new haircut of his. And what about that soft, soothing voice that always grew so excited when he launched into an infodumping session about his favorite topics? And wasn’t his constant stream of facts and general enthusiasm actually rather endearing, appealing even?

His frown deepened as he shook his head and gave Reid a call, the heat of the car radiating over his back as he leaned back. He furrowed his brow as the ringing eventually trailed off, going to that perky voicemail Garcia had forced the younger man to make. He smiled softly when Reid’s recorded voice stuttered – he could almost picture the man nervously rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to find the right words to say. He hung up before leaving a response, opting instead to shoot him a text with his jaw clenched in concern. Despite claiming to be adverse to technology, Reid was usually quick to answer his phone. 

I’m outside, you ready?

He bounced on the balls of his feet, glancing around at the sleepy tide of people starting to emerge from their homes and head to work. Wafts of cologne, perfume, and coffee wisped past him as they trudged by. He shifted his weight from hip to hip to soothe that restless ball of energy in his chest. 

The normalcy of the crowds unsettled him. These people were all in so much danger – they always were. Being in the BAU had given him that cursed Promethean foresight to see danger around every corner, but his time as a beat cop in Chicago and an agent in DC had taught him he could actually do very little to stop all of it. Angrily, he shook his head, attempting to stop that spiral of thinking before it could start.

Where the hell is he? he thought.

He tapped his phone against his bottom lip as he deliberated. He knew his exact address, right down to the apartment number. He knew everyone’s addresses. He liked having a vague sense of where everyone on the team was at any given moment. He could keep them safe that way. It would be so easy to go up there and walk in, but he worried the little nerd would freak out about his personal space being invaded. He was territorial like that, even in the BAU bullpen, especially when Morgan played with the knickknacks the younger man kept on his desk in a carefully organized line. 

Reid was an odd man with strange motivations, and Morgan largely respected his boundaries, but today’s concerns had him take the complex’s steps two at a time and catch the door when two of the tenants left. As he entered the building, their chatter and giggles echoing in his ear, he bitterly wondered how life could possibly go on when such a danger was just around the corner. He sighed when he saw the elevator was out of order and turned to the stairs.

His lungs started to burn after he mounted the six flights of stairs to Reid’s apartment. He loved cardio as much as the next fitness buff, but six flights of stairs this early in the morning was ridiculous. 

He did his best to even his breathing as he found Reid’s door and rapped on it, his knuckles stinging. “Reid? It’s me, you there?”

The agent’s eyebrows quirked when he heard a small crash followed by a muffled swear. 

“Morgan?” he heard the doctor almost yelp in surprise. 

“In the flesh,” the agent replied with a chuckle, breathing a silent sigh of relief at the sound of the man’s voice and leaning against the doorframe, “You alright?”

The agent heard a few more muffled oaths come from within. 

“You’re ten minutes early!” Reid replied frantically, ignoring his question.

Morgan shrugged, peering at his watch. “Took a shortcut.”

“There aren’t any shortcuts between here and the BAU that would get you here in less than twenty minutes given the hour and traffic volume unless you committed severe traffic violations or illegally used the emergency lights again even though you promised me you wouldn’t-”

“Alright, alright, are you ready or not?” Morgan interrupted.

“Of course I’m not ready!” Reid snapped in response, his voice growing fainter as he seemed to switch rooms. “You said you’d be here in twenty, and you got here in ten!”

“Listen, I don’t wanna keep yelling,” Morgan said, raising his voice to be heard through the thin door and nodding apologetically to one of the tenants who shot him a dirty look as they walked by, “Can you let me in?”

“No!”

Morgan blinked at the abruptness in his tone, eyebrows raised. He couldn’t remember a time when Reid had sounded so panicked. 

“C’mon, Reid, it’s just me,” Morgan whined, kicking at the scarcely worn, nondescript doormat, “The elevator’s out and I just walked up six flights of stairs. I don't wanna wait in the car.” 

After a few moments of deliberation, he heard a long, heavy sigh of defeat followed by a derisive snort as shaky hands fumbled with the lock. “Aren’t you always going on about the numerous benefits of cardio? You should be grateful for the opportunity.”

“Touche,” Morgan muttered through a sheepish smile as the door opened. 

Morgan felt all words leave him when he saw a disheveled Reid looking back at him, half-hidden behind the door. Reid always looked disheveled to a certain degree, like he couldn't manage the sheer power of his mind while taking care of his appearance – it was a part of his charm. But here, he truly looked like a wreck, as if he had just stumbled out of bed. So how the hell could he still have the nerve to look so good, even with damp, messy hair, smelling fresh from the shower? With those tubercular and bloodshot eyes, dark bags accentuating their bright shine? And that patchy stubble that was a treat to see on the normally clean-shaven man?

More embarrassingly, why was Morgan’s heart beating so feverishly, and why was he staring?

He quickly cleared his throat and ran a hand over his head, fighting to see through the dim light and take in his half-dressed appearance. Reid’s unbuttoned slacks struggled to stay on his hips, and his collar was wrinkled and sticking out every which way.

“There he is,” Morgan hummed as he removed his sunglasses. A snarky grin instinctively fought its way to his lips as he eyed Reid up and down. 

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed sharply as he swallowed, a bright blush flushing his cheeks as he looked down at his ragtag appearance. He quickly hiked his slacks up higher and dropped Morgan’s gaze, moving to hide himself behind the door even more. “Just…shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Morgan chuckled, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops and grinning widely. 

“You were going to. Just get in here, shut the door,” Reid hissed, disappearing from the threshold without another word, head down as he scurried into another room. 

The agent did as he was told, sliding through the threshold and easing the door shut. He blinked in the half-light, the cramped apartment lit only through the early light peeking through the thin, plain curtains and the fluorescent light spilling from the small bathroom.

Morgan tapped his hands on his thighs and glanced around, listening as a flustered Reid puttered around in the bathroom. He flicked the switch next to the door and furrowed his brow when no light came on. He squinted at the ceiling fan and saw empty sockets where the lightbulbs should be. Shrugging, he reached to turn on a nearby lamp and surveyed his surroundings with a curious and trained eye.

Reid’s apartment wasn't exactly what he pictured it to be. It would have been a normal-sized one-bedroom apartment were it not for the cluttered interior design and the sheer amount of books stacked around. The place smelled faintly of dust, mildew, and a hint of an air freshener that was no doubt hidden between haphazard stacks of books. Any possible wall was lined with a shelf or bookcase, and each one was filled to the brim with all matter of tomes. 

The agent traced the spines with a deft finger and saw subjects he expected, like crisp criminology and profiling textbooks, packed on dusty shelves close to the door and near the tiny living area, as if on display. He was surprised to see others, like earmarked books on drawing techniques, gender and sexuality, and botany, on clean shelves tucked away in darkened corners. 

He observed the framed diplomas hung proudly over a messy but well-used desk. He paged through the maze of handwritten academic papers scrawled in Reid’s tiny, skittery cursive that littered its scarred surface. The tiny kitchen was largely clean, with only a few bare-minimum cooking utensils sitting in an upcycled takeout container on the counter. There were no framed pictures of himself, family, or friends anywhere. Peering through the door to the bedroom, he-

“Stop profiling me,” Reid hissed as he emerged from the bathroom, the familiar scent of his pleasantly sweet shampoo making those butterflies dance in Morgan’s stomach as he squeezed past to enter the bedroom.

“I’m not!” Morgan exclaimed.

“You are,” Reid responded, sinking onto the unkempt bed and tying his shoes. 

“I am not,” Morgan insisted, glancing around at the type of nerdy posters, figurines, and paraphernalia he expected of the little dork. He was surprised they were hidden in the bedroom and not displayed in the living area. For how often Reid talked his ears off about the physics of Star Trek, he’d expect the man to show a more widespread reverence for it in his home. Was it shame that made him keep it hidden away in the privacy of the bedroom-?

“You are,” Reid snapped, slipping on a vest and fixing Morgan with a firm glare, “I know you. You’re doing it right now.”

Morgan swallowed guiltily but didn’t respond, picking his way deeper into the room and choosing to watch in an observational silence as Reid’s shoulders hugged his neck in embarrassment, a blush blooming high on his cheeks. The man surreptitiously kicked some of the dirty clothes that coated the floor into the pile of laundry in a corner next to a dresser that was carefully lined with a variety of figurines and LEGO models.

“Why do you hide all your nerd stuff in your bedroom?” Morgan asked curiously, picking at the curling corner of a vintage Star Trek poster tacked clumsily to the wall.

“Why are you so interested in what’s in my bedroom, Morgan?” Reid deflected.

“Just being nosy,” Morgan teased, nudging the dirty laundry and shooting him a sly smile, “Y’know, for a guy who’s so picky about his desk, your home is a bit of a mess.” 

“That’s rich coming from the guy who turns the car into his personal trash can during stakeouts,” Reid retorted, adjusting his brightly colored socks under his slacks.

Morgan winced and mimed a slap to his face, smiling when Reid fondly rolled his eyes and chuckled. 

“And for the record, I consider ‘being nosy’ the same thing as ‘profiling,’ so knock it off,” Reid said, standing to watch himself in the mirror as he hastily tied his tie.

“C’mon, man, I can’t help it,” Morgan drawled, noticing how Reid’s narrowed eyes followed him in the mirror as he prowled around the room, “This is my first time in your lair. I wanna see where all the magic happens.”

“Very mature,” Reid replied, rolling his eyes as Morgan shot him a devilish grin. “Now get out, please.”

“Aw, so soon?” Morgan teased, picking up the thick book on Reid’s nightstand, “I was just about to read this absolutely thrilling book on particle physics.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Reid chuckled, gently steering Morgan out of the room, “But I’d like to get changed in peace, please.”

“Damn,” Morgan sighed as he crossed the threshold, a mischievous smirk on his lips, “And here I was hoping for a free strip show.”

Reid averted his gaze, his cheeks a bright red. He knew this off-color humor was how Morgan bantered, but he was in no state to participate like he usually did. “Shut up.”

Morgan held his hands up in an appeasing gesture as Reid shut the door and resumed getting ready. 

As the door clicked closed, Morgan’s phone buzzed in his hands. 

“Morgan,” he answered alertly, the butterflies in his stomach evaporating. He hadn’t realized how simply being in Reid’s presence had made him feel calmer, a bright elation running through his veins.

“Where are you?” Hotch asked on the other end, his words more clipped than usual. 

“At Reid’s,” Morgan replied, picking up a Rubik’s cube from an end table and tossing it in the air, “We’ll be back in twenty.”

“See you in ten.”

Reid took a moment to breathe after he hastily shut the bedroom door in Morgan’s face. The agent’s muffled conversation with Hotch barely registered in his ears as he carefully tried to take the deep, calming breaths all his psychology books told him to take whenever he was nervous.

Reid wasn’t a religious man by any means, but he hoped to whatever higher power might be out there that Morgan hadn’t seen the semi-realistic packer he had lying on the floor. He quickly locked the bedroom door and recovered it from under the sweater he had managed to kick over it when the man wasn’t looking. He gnawed on his lips and frantically drummed on his chest – what if Morgan had noticed he wasn’t wearing a packer? He shook his head to try and dispel the thought, his mind already full of nagging, dysphoric thoughts.

Those thoughts eased slightly when the packer gave him that familiar bulge as he pulled up his slacks. He hastily lashed his belt around his slender waist, shuddering at the prospect of Morgan figuring out what the device was if he had seen it. Then again, he knew the dirty-minded man would have teased him about it immediately, especially if he had mistaken it for a dildo, which would have been infinitely worse to deal with- 

“C’mon Reid, you almost ready?” Morgan called from the living room.

Reid rushed out. He could tell the man was getting impatient – the agent was tossing one of his Rubik’s cubes from hand to hand and earnestly tapping his foot as he leaned against the back of the dingy sofa. His trained eyes were still flitting about, that blank, objective look on his face as he analyzed.

“Almost,” Reid replied with a tight smile. He grabbed the cube and carefully put it back in its specific place on the end table, smirking at Morgan's small noise of disappointment as he did so.

He weaved through the messy room to grab his work bag, feeling like his surroundings were too much of an open book he knew Morgan was more than capable of reading. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he saw the man rubbing his hands together, eyes analytically darting around the room despite himself. Reid huffed and placed himself firmly in front of Morgan, trying to divert his attention from the room.

It worked immediately. The man’s eyes lit up, and he shot him a dazzling yet apologetic smile. “Ready?” 

Reid nodded his head with a quick jerk. “Ready.”

Morgan laughed, reaching over to ruffle Reid’s damp hair. “Someone oughta teach you how to style this thing, pretty boy.”

Reid grumbled half-hearted excuses as he picked his way to the door. The ghost of Morgan’s tender touch still lingered on his scalp, the sensitive nerves there emitting faint fissures of pleasure. He didn’t dare to analyze why his body, always so quick to reject human touch, only seemed to welcome contact from Morgan. He stopped himself from remembering that the man showed his affection through physical touch, and he shot down the small voice at the back of his head that craved more from him- 

“Nerds first,” Morgan hummed with that cheeky grin, bowing dramatically to him as he held open the door.

Reid rolled his eyes, face burning as he hurried past. 

They were quiet as they made their way down the rickety stairs. Morgan suddenly seemed preoccupied, tension hovering around his eyebrows and in his jaw as he took the stairs two at a time. Reid trotted quickly to catch up.

“So what’s going on?” Reid asked quietly as they pushed open the front doors. He jogged to catch up to his co-worker, who was striding towards the car with a purpose Reid only saw him reserve for their most sensitive cases.

Morgan waited until they were both in the car with the doors locked tight before responding, tucking his sunglasses into his shirt. Reid struggled with his seatbelt, anxiety making his palms sweat and his heart pound against his sternum. He eyed the man expectantly, trying to swallow back his apprehension.

Morgan sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Anthrax.”

The sound of the car’s engine turning over pierced the horrified silence that settled between them. 

Oh, god.

“...What?” Reid spluttered, staring at Morgan with his mouth slightly agape in sheer disbelief.

Morgan gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles paled. “Anthrax attack.”

“Anthrax,” Reid repeated slowly, his expression dazed as he studied the specks of dust on the dashboard. 

Morgan merely hummed in tight-lipped affirmation, peeling out into the street so quickly Reid was pushed back into his seat. He gripped the safety bar above him as Morgan weaved through traffic.

“Now I know how you got here so fast,” he muttered before clearing his throat and speaking up, “What exactly happened?”

Morgan shrugged, drumming his fingers in a sharp cadence against the steering wheel. “I don’t know. I only know it’s…that because I overheard Hotch talking about it on the phone with some general. I called you right after.”

Reid nodded, the cylinders in his mind starting to fire as he adjusted his legs in the seat more comfortably. “Well, most strains of anthrax have prophylactic treatments available, but if it’s a new strain it-”

A sharp, stabbing cramp tore the words from Reid’s mouth, forcing him to utter a small, soft hiss of pain. He tightened his lips and squeezed his eyes shut, gripping his abdomen and breathing slowly through the radiating waves of discomfort.

“You alright?” Morgan asked, an edge of concern on his tone as he briefly sized up the younger man from the corner of his eye.

“I’m fine,” Reid replied hurriedly, quickly rubbing his thigh as if soothing a muscle cramp, “Just pulled a muscle.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes, causing Reid to sweat, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck and hands. “You sure?”

Reid nodded, a jerky movement accentuated by a sharp swallow. He focused on holding himself in a natural position, acting like there wasn’t any pain in his traitorous body. He could feel Morgan’s analytical stare in between him glancing at the road, and he felt his dysphoria spike. Would Morgan be able to tell he was having period cramps? God, what would happen if he bled through the pantiliner? How would-

“Alright, genius, why don’t you get me up to speed on what you know about anthrax, huh?” Morgan asked encouragingly as if sensing the man’s discomfort and offering a means of distraction.

Reid breathed a quiet, shaky sigh of relief. Thank god.

And so he filled the rest of the hasty ride to Quantico with an assortment of random facts about the terrifying bacterium, from the havoc it wreaked on the body to statistics from the latest attack on domestic soil. It was a welcome distraction, one that was enhanced by the enthusiastic gestures and tics he always had whenever he discussed something he was passionate about. In his enthusiasm, he failed to see the soft smile on Morgan’s face and how he slowly stopped anxiously tapping on the steering wheel the longer Reid spoke. 

Morgan brought the car to a jerky halt within the BAU parking lot a very quick ten minutes later. Reid stumbled from the vehicle, breathing heavily to rid himself of his inevitable motion sickness. He had lost count of the number of traffic violations Morgan had committed, but the man had sheepishly turned off the emergency lights when Reid had glowered at him. However, he did feel calmer after spilling most of what he knew about anthrax to Morgan’s listening ear. But fear quickly overtook him as he stood and felt his flow increase when his center of gravity shifted. Quickly, he glanced at the seat and checked for bloodstains. He breathed a mute sigh of relief when he saw the fabric was clean. 

“Woah.”

Reid shut the door and followed Morgan’s gaze. They both stared in quiet bewilderment at the platoon of jeeps from the US Army speeding into the lot, their tinted windows reflecting the early morning sun. Morgan took off his sunglasses to get a better look, and Reid wrinkled his nose at the foul exhaust spewing from the vehicles. They sped away to some unseen lot, leaving behind a thick cloud of black fumes. 

The two agents exchanged concerned glances and hurried up the familiar steps towards the BAU.

Emily intercepted them in the elevator. Reid jammed his arm in the door to hold it open for her, nodding as she offered her breathless thanks. 

“Why is the Army here?!” she sputtered in a muffled whisper, eyeing the troupe of soldiers with camouflage uniforms who marched into the elevator. Morgan and Reid shot her tight frowns and noncommital shrugs, neither wanting to disclose what they knew in the strangers’ austere presence. The trio squished themselves into a corner to accommodate them. 

“Uh,” Emily said, addressing the silent elevator at large as the door slid shut, casting a surreptitious glance at the soldiers, “What floor?”

One soldier in front pressed the button for the BAU, narrowing his eyes at her.

“What a coincidence, that’s where we’re going!” Emily chuckled nervously before lowering her voice to a mutter, “Assholes.” 

Morgan snickered quietly, looking to Reid for a reaction. All he could muster was a small, placating grimace. The elevator was way too full and these people were far too close. He took steadying breaths, his anxiety spiking before Morgan held an arm over his head and leaned against the far wall, using his body to shield him from the serious-faced soldiers. He could smell that wonderful cologne the man used, the spicy, woody one that somehow soothed him and got his blood pumping at the same time.

The agent cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. You ok?

Reid nodded. I’m fine.

He just needed to get to the vending machine near the bathrooms – JJ and Emily sometimes joked about how odd it was that there were pads and tampons for sale on the bottom row. He had laughed with the rest of them then, but he was incredibly grateful they were there now.

He squeezed out of the elevator as soon as it was open, letting out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. 

“Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on?” Emily exclaimed, the three profilers all watching in varying degrees of horror and confusion through the glass doors at the mass swarm of people storming around the BAU bullpen.

Reid shook his head sharply, focused only on escaping to the bathroom. He turned to disappear down the hallway when he heard Hotch intercept them.

“All of you, briefing room, now,” their boss said in his usual serious tone, the only sign of enhanced stress being the increased tightness of his lips, “Reid, where are you going?”

Reid winced, giving Hotch his best pleading look. “Bathroom?”

The senior agent shook his head, frown deepening when a uniformed man pushed past him. “Wait until after the brief.”

He marched away, Emily following close behind. Morgan shot Reid a cheeky grin as he held the door open for him. “Uh oh, you gonna make it?”

Reid’s face went red for what felt like the millionth time that day as he squeezed by. “Shut up.”

“Just try not to think about Niagra Falls too much,” Morgan teased with an impish smile.

“I hate you, ” Reid grumbled, stopping dead in his tracks when he walked past his desk.

He had never seen the BAU this crowded before, nor had he heard it this loud before. On a normal day, the bullpen was haunted by the echoes of old memories. He and the team often bantered here. Victims’ loved ones often learned about their family members’ gruesome deaths here. It was a sepulchral, sacred place that deserved respect and care, and these awful people were showing it anything but.

Today, a cacophony of angry, worried voices talking urgently amongst themselves or yelling at others in strident tones over the phone pounded in his ears. The incessant ringing, the frantic shuffling of files, the angry voices, the squeaking chairs, and slamming drawers made him long for noise-canceling headphones. People from across the Bureau and the military stormed around their precious bullpen, touching files with dirty hands and rearranging furniture. But the most distressing change was the people at his desk. He unwontedly seethed when he saw complete strangers sitting at and on his desk, using his office phone, tossing his carefully ordered things aside in favor of their boxes, files, and bodies. 

He involuntarily flexed and splayed his fingers in the same somewhat painful way he always did when he was getting overstimulated, gnawing at his lip and glowering until he felt a gentle hand on the small of his back, urging him forward. 

“C’mon,” Morgan murmured close to his ear, his fingers pressing into him gently, “the briefing room is probably less crazy.”

Reid swallowed, his now sore hands falling to his side and his tongue soothing his raw lip. His heart pounded in his chest when Morgan’s strong hand remained on his sensitive back as they maneuvered through the throngs of people. 

He wondered if Morgan knew that a touch like that from anyone else would have made him recoil. 

“They’re touching my stuff,” Reid growled in a strained voice, sliding past people with anger brewing in his chest as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets to prevent himself from stimming further.

“I know,” Morgan said as they mounted the steps, and Reid was thankful his tone didn’t sound overtly pitying or dismissive, “I’m sorry.”

The rest of the team was already in the room. They eyed the pair quietly as they walked in, giving somber nods or short-lived, tight-lipped smiles. Morgan’s hand fell and Reid hurried to his seat, glad that his usual spot was open despite all the chaos around them. He nestled into the wide seat, sitting in his usual criss-crossed position and gently rocking back and forth as he sized up the chaos outside.

JJ met their expectant glances with a sad half-smile, worry creasing her eyebrows. She nodded to the serious-looking woman carefully placing doses of small white pills into what looked like condiment cups fetched from the BAU’s kitchenette.

“Guys, this is Dr. Linda Kimura,” she said as she gestured to the woman, whose somber expression swiftly changed into a stiff smile of greeting, “She’s the Chief of Special Pathogens at the CDC.”

“I’m sorry to be meeting you all under these circumstances,” Kimura said with a tight nod before returning to her pill counting.

“What circumstances, exactly?” Emily asked, annoyance tainting her tone. Reid couldn’t help a small puff of mirth – few things irritated Emily more than being in the dark about something. 

“We need to get started,” Hotch said, shooting Emily a warning look as he passed everyone a case file.

Reid looked up when he heard JJ click on the projector, the blueish light casting a ghastly haze over the profilers’ curled lips and quiet grimaces. Even with his eidetic memory that had been conjuring up images of anthrax lesions all morning, he felt a cold, hollow pit of dread in his stomach when he saw a young child, no more than ten years old, appear on the screen. He was deathly pale and covered with the thick, necrotic lesions that were characteristic of anthrax. 

“Last night, 25 people checked into ERs in and around Annapolis,” JJ said grimly, clicking through more images and averting her eyes whenever children were pictured, “They were all at the same park after 2 p.m. yesterday, but within ten hours the first victim died.”

Reid swallowed and glanced at Morgan, knowing that cases involving children bothered him more than any other. The man stared at the child with a hard expression, the kind that spoke of anger that would not be quelled until they caught the criminal responsible. 

“Right now, it’s just past 7 a.m. the next day, and we have 12 dead,” JJ continued, glancing at her watch and twisting her wedding ring. 

“Lung failure and black lesions,” Morgan murmured absently, squinting at the black eschars, “that’s definitely anthrax.”

Reid flipped through the files and scanned through the medical reports with quick eyes. Numbers, scores, and images passed through his mind, but the facts from this case and the statistics he unearthed from his memory didn’t match up.

“Anthrax doesn’t usually kill this fast,” he pointed out, looking to Kimura for affirmation and swallowing nervously.

The doctor met his concerned gaze and gave a sad sigh. “This strain does.”

The silence that followed was thick, tense. They all knew how dangerous anthrax could be, how terrifying it had proven to be in the letter attacks in 2001. With its completely undetectable spores and toxic compounds, the bacteria had the physical power and social infamy to destabilize entire governments – it had earned its status as a weapon of mass destruction for a reason. 

“OK, what are we doing about mass targets?” Emily asked, waving her file in emphasis, “Malls? Trains? Airports?”

“There’s a media blackout,” Hotch replied with a steely expression.

“Hold up,” Morgan interjected, indignation brewing in his voice. “We’re not telling the public?”

“We’d have a mass exodus,” Hotch countered, his dark eyes boring into Morgan’s, “The psychology of group panic would cause more deaths than this last attack.”

“He’s right,” Reid piped up, flipping through his file to avoid Morgan’s betrayed gaze, “Plus, if whoever did this caught wind of the news, they might go underground or destroy their samples.”

“But what if they wanted attention and didn't get it?” Emily countered, chewing her lip in annoyance, “They might attack again!”

“Doesn’t the public have a right to know what’s going on in their own damn neighborhood?” Morgan pressed, slapping his file down on the table.

“If there is another attack, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet. We can keep this one under control,” Hotch replied calmly, still staring at Morgan as if daring him to argue further, “Our best chance at protecting people is by building a profile as quickly as we can. Understood?”

Morgan scowled and sat back, folding his arms over his chest and avoiding Hotch’s gaze but nodding with the rest of the team. He quickly cleared his throat and looked at Kimura. “What do we know about this strain?”

“The spores are weaponized, reduced to a respiratory ideal that attacks deep in the lungs,” she replied.

“What does that mean?” Emily asked.

“Essentially, the bacterium has been modified,” the doctor explained, “It’s designed to quickly enter the lungs and cause as much damage as possible.”

Reid nodded slowly, rubbing his chin, “A strain this sophisticated with this level of lesion growth and respiratory arrest could really only be made by a scientist with a specialized skill set. One would need the patience and know-how to curate a strain this ideal for rapid infection.”

Reid swallowed when he caught a glimpse of Morgan watching him with an impressed expression. He was leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head, a small, crooked grin twitching his lips. Despite the situation, Reid felt a twinge of pride. When Morgan looked at him like that, it felt like he was a master of public speaking, like he was the most powerful person in the room.

He cleared his throat, trying to calm his racing heart rate. “Do we have any means of treating the toxins in the lungs once they’re released?” 

“Toxins?” JJ asked.

“Yeah, once anthrax is in your lungs it makes toxins that cause fluid buildup and swelling and stuff,” Morgan replied, flipping through his file with a look of concentration on his face. 

The man then raised an eyebrow and looked into each face when his pronouncement was met with a surprised silence. “What?”

“I think hanging out with Reid all the time is having an effect on you, Derek,” Emily teased, nudging the man and shooting Reid a wink. 

“Hey, I’m more than just a pretty face, Prentiss,” Morgan replied smoothly, matching her teasing with ease, though he ran a hand over his head in an embarrassed, nervous gesture. 

“I told him all that,” Reid piped up, smirking as Morgan shot him a withering look for ruining his moment of glory.

“Stay on topic, please,” Hotch warned them. Sheepishly, they fell silent and turned their attention back to the doctor.

“Unfortunately, no. All we’ve been able to do so far is keep the victims comfortable. We don’t know how to combat the toxins once they’re inside,” Kimura said sadly, “The reality is we may lose them all.”

Morgan’s grip on the child’s photo increased, and Reid’s chest felt impossibly tighter. 

“The remaining survivors have been moved to a special wing at Walter Reed Hospital,” JJ said, “Our offices will act as a small command center.”

“We’ll be working with military personnel and scientists from Fort Detrick,” Hotch announced, gesturing to the madness outside.

The team exchanged glances. They all knew about the top-secret government facility that operated under the guise of biomedical research. However, they all knew it was secretly the heart of the nation’s biological defense program and employed some of the brightest minds in medicine. 

“So…we’re working with the type of people who have the skills Reid was talking about,” Emily said slowly. 

Hotch nodded grimly.

“So we very well may be working with the unsub,” Morgan replied hollowly.

Morgan’s pronouncement preceded a nauseating silence, each profiler casting a furtive glance at the masses of people storming around in the bullpen.

“We need to learn all we can about this strain,” Hotch said, “Once we determine the level of sophistication, it can point us to the person who had the right amount of experience to create it.”

“Until you do, my team is in charge of treating all the victims,” Kimura said. 

Hotch’s expression was steely. “Morgan, you and Reid go to the hospital and interview the victims. Prentiss, Dave, there’s a hazmat team that’ll accompany you to the crime scene. You know the drill – keep a low profile around the staff from Fort Detrick.”

He nodded to the flimsy cups filled with pills and the line of water bottles on the table, “There’s Cipro. Everyone has to take it before we go.”

“What is it, exactly?” Morgan asked, eyeing the pills warily.

“It’s an antibiotic. Usually, it’s the first line of defense when treating and preventing anthrax infections,” Kimura offered as everyone reached for the cups, “We don’t know if it’s effective against this strain, but…it’s better than nothing.”

“Cheers,” Morgan muttered bitterly, raising his cup before downing the pills in one. 

Reid reached for a cup, contemplatively rolling the capsules around. It was times like these that his vast knowledge and eidetic memory put him at a disadvantage – he knew it was highly unlikely that this class of antibiotics would be effective against an anthrax strain this powerful. The others could rely on the placebo effect to keep their hopes up.

He washed the pills down with a swig of water. All he had was grim acceptance.

Chapter Text

Morgan and Reid escorted Kimura through the crowded bullpen and into the lobby when the team dispersed.

“I really have to hit the bathroom before we go,” Reid murmured urgently as he passed Morgan, who held the door open for him like he always did.

Morgan chuckled, giving him that dazzling grin. “Alright. Want more coffee?”

Reid’s eyes lit up, a broad smile brewing on his face. “Ooh, yes, please. This’ll be my first coffee of the day, actually.”

Morgan whistled in sympathy as they made their way to the elevator. “Christ, how are you even functioning right now?”

“It’s amazing what the threat of bioterrorism can do to one’s psyche,” Reid replied dryly, tucking his file into his bag.

“Lots of dairy-free creamer and all the sugar we got, right?” Morgan asked with a smirk.

Reid rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. “You read my mind.”

“Great minds think alike,” Morgan said while grinning widely and tapping his temple, causing Reid to snort, “Dr. Kimura, can I offer you some of the FBI’s world-famous coffee?”

“Aren’t you always complaining about how it tastes like dishwater?” Reid asked cheekily, chuckling when Morgan shoved him playfully. 

“Can’t be any worse than hospital coffee,” Kimura laughed, nodding to Morgan, “I’ll come with you. I’m particular about my order.”

“Meet you at the elevator, alright?” Morgan asked, tossing him a casual salute and a lazy grin. Reid nodded amicably before bolting down the hallway as soon as the two were out of sight.

He strode down the familiar hallways, which were thronging with packs of stony-faced strangers. Twisting and turning every which way, he avoided brushing against them as much as he could, each of his senses heightened in a way that could bring him dangerously close to overload. The wrinkles in his shirt rubbing against the crease of his elbows, the constriction and chafing of his damp binder, the perilous moisture of his period – it was all grating on his nerves. 

Everything would be fine once he got a proper pad on. He wasn’t going to let something as childish as his sensory issues or as commonplace as his period interfere with this investigation. Not this time. 

His heart fell when he saw the bottom row of the vending machine was completely barren except for some tampons wrapped in bright pink paper adorned with flowers – insult upon injury.

No, please no.

He took a shuddering breath, frantically rubbing his hands together. He pressed himself against the far wall to avoid the military officials coming in and out of the bathroom. He felt their eyes boring into him as they passed, making his breathing tighter and more shallow. Not a tampon. Anything but a tampon.

Keep calm , he thought to himself as he drummed a tuneless rhythm on his chest. He had to move before Morgan and the doctor returned, before Morgan inevitably got impatient and looked for him. He couldn’t risk having Morgan of all people see him clutching a bright pink flowery tampon, so he shakily pulled a few wrinkled dollar bills from his ratty wallet and shoved them in the machine. 

Passersby caught a mumbled stream of angry swears and whispered pleads as the machine spewed out his bills again and again. Anyone walking by could watch as he rigorously flattened the lousy bills against the side of the machine and furiously punched the relevant buttons.

Eventually, just as he was about to kick the machine or bash his head against the glass in utter defeat, it took his money and spewed out the offending item. Swiftly, furtively, he fished it out and stuffed it in his pocket. He quickly backed against the far wall, averting his gaze from the strangers milling by. Realistically, he knew everyone was far too worried about the case to even bother glancing at him, but he felt like a thousand eyes were examining him at every angle, judging him for needing a tampon.

He darted into the men’s restroom. It was the same room he had used since he had started his career in Quantico, and he had never felt out of place there. As far as he knew, everyone in the building read him as male, so he didn’t feel the need to be defensive in there. There were a few stalls that were always relatively clean, and no one ever gave him problems for only using them and never the urinals. That was very intentional on Reid’s part – he always timed his restroom breaks around whenever Hotch, Rossi, or Morgan went so he wouldn’t have any awkward encounters with them. To the detriment of his health, he had gotten very good at holding it in.

But now, there were far too many people in here, and it was so much more disgusting with the horrible stenches stinging his nostrils. With a harried grunt, he shooed people in line behind him to the urinals, standing aside to wait for a stall to open. He slid into one as soon as it became available, keeping his eyes on the floor and trying his best to ignore the sounds of other people’s urine splashing against the smelly porcelain, the odor of the person who had used the stall before him, or the rustling of clothes. 

He let out a breathless sigh of relief and sank down. In here, there was much less unwanted visual stimulus. But soon, he was faced with another issue he had never encountered at work before, largely because he hadn’t needed to worry about it since he was around nineteen years old – the men’s restrooms didn’t have trash cans in the stalls. 

He paled. And it certainly wasn’t normal to tear open a flimsy tampon in the men’s bathroom either. In an instant, he was back in college, trying to hide the telltale sound of a pad opening while hiding in the stalls of the university’s men’s restroom. He took steadying breaths, trying to ignore the powerful sounds, smells, and sights. 

He swallowed down the burning dysphoria as he removed the bloody pantiliner, quickly wrapping it up in toilet paper. Helpless, he placed the papery wad atop the toilet paper dispenser. He’d worry about that later. For now, he had to grapple with the fact that the first time he was ever using a tampon was when half the US Army was in the same bathroom as him and right before he was set to chase down a maniac using one of the world’s most horrifying bioagents to terrify DC, all while someone he was developing dangerous feelings for was waiting for him.

He knew he had to hurry, but he couldn’t bear to open the wrapper at anything besides an agonizing pace, spacing the ripping and tearing out in a way that made people question if they heard properly. Each rip and tear was a hellish harmony to the degrading voices of dysphoria and anxiety screaming in his ears. He finally tugged it off and prayed to whatever deity out there that no one heard that traitorous plastic as loud as his ears perceived it. 

As he held the unwrapped device in front of him, he was hit with an unexpected wave of crushing emotions.

His vision blurred as tears that had tried to fall all morning crowded into his eyes all at once. Angrily, he scrubbed them away, fighting the bitter lump forming in his throat. He dug his nails into his knee, fighting the nausea brewing in his gut.

Reid didn’t struggle with bottom dysphoria as much as he did with top dysphoria. His unusually lanky and skinny figure had served him well in his transition. But the thought of having to use a tampon made him want to gag. Having something inside wasn’t the problem – it was the idea of having to use a tampon to defend against his period that made him recoil. 

Logically, he knew anyone could get a period and use a tampon to catch the flow regardless of gender, but his dysphoria was rarely rational. His mind still labeled this as a feminine event despite his best efforts, and his dysphoria was quick to weaponize that. He knew tampons were something cisgender women struggled with as well – God knows how many menstrual product preference discussions he had overheard between JJ, Emily, and Garcia – but he rarely felt that irrational dysphoria as ardently and tangibly as when he examined this shitty tampon with its flimsy cardboard applicator.

He couldn’t contain the sob he let out when he tried, again and again, to get the horrible object in place, hearing a chorus of venomous words and thoughts running in his mind until he forced it into place so hard he bit down on his hand to distract from the pain.

If only there wasn’t a fucking anthrax attack. If only half of the fucking military wasn’t loudly pissing and shitting in the only bathroom he felt comfortable using in the entire building. God, if only Morgan wasn’t the one waiting for him outside.

On any other day, he would have let out his quiet sobs, stayed on that disgusting toilet, and cried until that screaming beast of dysphoria and these new, horrible cramps went away. Everyone on the team had their ‘cry in the bathroom’ days – it was a part of the job. Those days were sacred, a cleansing ritual that rebuilt their profound empathy and helped them cling to their humanity after looking the cruelest scum of the earth in the eye day in and day out. No one said anything whenever they returned to work after those episodes, eyes rimmed red and noses running. Besides, his eyes were always bloodshot from exhaustion and caffeine overdose anyway, so Morgan probably wouldn’t even notice his undone state. Even if he did, Reid could never look anyone in the eye for long. Especially not today.

But his phone buzzed in his pants pocket on the floor, so he forced himself to be presentable. He wiped his eyes, tossing the pantiliner in the toilet. He knew he shouldn't, but he could blame the dozens of strangers coming in and out if it caused any plumbing damage. He hiked up his slacks and held a hand to his mouth to try to quell the searing nausea building in his gut when he felt the tampon and its string with every movement he made. He felt beads of sweat dripping down his back. The phone buzzed in his pocket again, shaking him away from the edge of a nervous breakdown.

He just had to survive the day. Just one fucking day.

“Jesus, is that bathroom usable anymore?” Morgan laughed when Reid finally hurried up to him at the elevator, his head hung low, “Should I call the bomb squad?”

“Very funny,” Reid murmured coolly, pressing the already lit button with urgency and taking the coffee Morgan proffered with a terse nod, “There was a line, that’s all.”

Morgan snickered and sipped his coffee. He gestured for Reid and Kimura to enter the elevator before him, making sure to place himself between Reid and the official-looking soldiers as they filed in. He knew the man was slightly touch-averse on a good day, and he knew him well enough to know today was a bad day – he could practically feel the tension radiating off him in waves. 

“So, Dr. Reid,” Kimura started, looking at the man squished in the corner of the elevator, “May I ask what your doctorate is in? Psychology, I presume?”

Morgan snickered to himself. Here comes the long-winded explanation he had heard dozens of times before. 

“Uh, no. Just in chemistry, mathematics, and engineering,” Reid replied quietly, hiding his face behind his coffee, his eyes glued to the floor. 

Morgan narrowed his eyes at the man, waiting for him to rattle on about his various theses and studies. Morgan often said he could almost boast bachelor's degrees in those subjects thanks to how much the dork enthusiastically discussed the topics with him, and he had never known an instance when Reid didn’t blabber on about his studies whenever he was given a chance. But the man merely drank his coffee in silence, his eyes down, face hidden by soft waves of nut-brown hair. 

Kimura blinked, shocked. “That’s…incredibly impressive.”

“I know,” Reid replied wearily, picking at a spot on his vest. Morgan saw a vein starting to pop in the man’s slender throat as he tugged at his collar and scrubbed at the back of his neck.

“Do you happen to know much about anthrax or infectious disease?” the doctor asked, tilting her head, still trying in vain to catch the man’s gaze. Annoyance prickled in Morgan’s chest – couldn’t she see the guy didn’t want to talk?

“We’ve been trained on what to do if a biological attack occurs ever since the incident in 2001,” Morgan offered affably, shooting her a reassuring smile while positioning himself slightly in front of Reid so her attention would fall on him. The woman was genuinely kind and curious in her questioning, but Morgan recognized the warning signs of a social shutdown in his friend.

Morgan also recognized his signs of relief, like the soft, shuddering breath of gratitude he could feel on the back of his neck when Kimura began drilling Morgan with questions and insights about how the events at the hospital would likely play out. Morgan did his best to answer her, letting Reid tag along out of her direct line of sight as they made their way out of the building and to the car. The man was slightly hunched, discomfort dictating every movement. 

Morgan was getting worried.

It was odd. Reid seemed fully comfortable with Kimura in the comfort of the briefing room and among his team, but now he was being quiet, unusually so even for someone who sometimes struggled to connect with investigators he didn’t know well. But ever since he had come back from the bathroom, he had kept his head down and his thoughts to himself. 

Morgan watched as Reid stuffed himself into the farthest corner of the back seat, mechanically strapping himself in and steadily avoiding Morgan’s watchful glances in the rearview mirror. He softly thunked his head on the headrest in a repetitive motion, no doubt doing that pressure-seeking thing he did when he was processing something. Morgan’s mouth thinned, but he kept quiet. He knew Reid simply needed some silence. 

The ride to Walter Reed was long, exacerbated by heavy traffic from last-minute commuters. Morgan kept the conversation between himself and Kimura, offering amiable commentary about commuting, work, and the case. Every once in a while, he glanced at the back seat through the rearview mirror to keep an eye on Reid. The man had pulled his well-worn headphones out of his bag, tilting his head so he could comfortably look out the window without squishing his ear. He spent the time watching traffic go by or flipping through the case file with indifference. He kept fidgeting, adjusting himself in his seat, and wincing.

It took all of Morgan’s will not to call back to the man and ask him if everything was alright. Reid had always been the high-strung, anxious type for as long as he had known him. He supposed it was a side effect of having a brain that constantly moved at the speed of light. But today was different. He was shielding himself more, hiding his eyes more than usual. Something was wrong, and Morgan was going to find out what once this case was over. 

But he didn’t have time to focus on the man’s concerning behavior when one of his fears was rearing its head. 

He hated hospitals. 

Anytime he entered an intensive care unit like the chilly, brightly lit one Kimura led them into, he felt a hollow wave of dread snake through him, causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end. He struggled to pull on the gloves the doctor instructed them to wear, the rubber slipping on his sweaty palms. The sight of the tangled mess of tubes and wires, the sharp scent of disinfectant, and the strident, incessant beeping and alarms from dozens of machines called back horrible memories he wanted absolutely nothing to do with. He swallowed and followed Kimura, shoving his unease deep into his chest and trying to shake the knowledge that Reid was observing him carefully.

Conversely, Reid seemed to do well in hospitals. Anytime their cases involved hospitals, Hotch always seemed to send him. Reid approached them with practiced objectivity and snapped on the gloves with expert ease. Morgan couldn’t help but picture the countless times the man had pulled lab gloves over those elegant, bony fingers, maybe hunched over a chemistry bench or tinkering on some engineering project. If the alarms and the beeping were bothering his sensitive ears, he gave no sign of it – Morgan watched as the man seemed to perk up, surveying his surroundings with scientific interest, taking in the state of the victims with a keen eye.

Kimura led them into a small ward with a young woman lying on the bed, her ghostly pallor interrupted with oozing, necrotic welts. Morgan’s stomach dropped at the sight, and his breathing hitched. Her sullen, sunken eyes still gleamed – they watched his every move. Her lips were chapped, the corners of her mouth edged with blood. All manner of tubes and wires were attached to her body, making her seem like a sickly puppet that was rotting from the inside out.

He swallowed sharply. He knew this situation wasn’t dangerous. All it was was a young girl barely in her twenties staring at them with a wary look that tried its best to cover her dread. He knew that poor young woman was suffering and could use human company, a pat on the shoulder at least, but he couldn’t bear to stand closer than a foot or two away from the bed, his back to the wall and his heart pounding.

“Want me to do the interview?” Reid murmured beside him, fingers pressing hesitantly into the small of his back.

“Uh…By all means,” Morgan replied, trying not to let relief leech into his tone. But Reid’s soft, knowing expression as he slid past to stand beside Kimura told him it had.

“Hi, Abby,” Kimura greeted the girl with a gentle voice and a strained smile, “You feeling any better?”

The girl’s sullen, sunken eyes twitched languidly to the doctor. She shook her head slowly, as if cement had weighed down her neck. 

“OK,” Kimura said sadly, giving the girl an encouraging smile, “This is Dr. Reid and Agent Morgan. They’re from the FBI.”

Reid and Morgan waved or titled their heads respectively, each offering pained smiles.

“If you can, will you talk with them?” the doctor asked.

After a moment’s deliberation, the young woman nodded, switching her gaze back to the profilers. Morgan pulled his notepad out of his back pocket, content to be the notetaker in this situation. Normally, he was the one who handled the cognitive interviews – he had a knack for helping witnesses recall those key details that would slowly piece together into a lead the team could chase. But he couldn’t today. He was too busy trying to hide from his own memories to coax any out of someone else’s mind. 

He could not be more grateful for Reid today.

“Abby, I’d like to try to do a memory recall exercise with you to try to take you back to the park, if that’s OK,” Reid said as he stepped up to the bed, his tone softer than usual. His gaze was gentle and unwavering, but it had the practiced objectiveness all the profilers had. 

Abby’s weary expression flickered with doubt, but she nodded.

“It might sound silly, but I need you to close your eyes,” Reid murmured with a gentle, neutral smile on his lips, linking his fingers together across his abdomen and nodding at her earnestly. 

The young woman gave him a skeptical look before complying, her long eyelashes and streaked mascara cutting a stark slash across her sickly face.

“Yesterday afternoon, you rode your bicycle to the park,” Reid started, his voice as soft as a lullaby, “How did the sun feel on your skin? The breeze through your hair?”

The woman scrunched her eyes, swallowing sharply. 

“Can you describe for me what you heard? Or the people that you saw?” he asked. 

She was silent for a few moments, gnawing on her peeling lips before taking a shuddering breath. Her voice was grated, nothing more than a harsh whisper that sent shudders down Morgan’s spine. “It was warm. Windy.”

Her breathing rattled as she spoke, her chest shaking with effort. Morgan took a calming breath as he wrote, his penmanship jagged as his fingers trembled. No twenty-something kid should ever sound like that, like their voice was already dancing with death. 

“There were guys…playin’ football,” she wheezed, her chest stuttering as she tried to breathe, “There’s kids. I see…I free. I’m we-”

The woman cleared her throat and cracked open her eyes, furrowing her brow. Taking a crackly breath, she said “Me see fee, me.”

Her eyes flew open in horror.

Morgan’s stomach dropped as the woman struggled to form words, her lips wobbling and twitching. He watched the panic rise in her face like a flash flood as she stared in desperation at Reid and the doctor, her words becoming more babbled and frantic. 

“Alright, Abby, it’s OK,” Kimura said gently, placing a reassuring hand on the woman’s forearm.

“We seeb me too way?!” the woman gasped, clawing for Kimura’s hand, tears starting to fill her bloodshot eyes.

“Shh, it’s OK,” Kimura said sweetly, patting the girl’s hand, “You just get some rest now, OK?”

The girl’s throat rattled as she gasped between garbled words, her pale gums glistening in the stark light as she wailed into Kimura’s arms. The profilers watched as Kimura valiantly tried to calm her by stroking her frizzy hair, her other gloved hand surreptitiously increasing the girl’s painkiller dose.

Morgan stood frozen in horror, his pen trailing off the notepad as his hand shook. Deep, unsettling fear, anger, and guilt clawed at his gut, spreading like a poisonous miasma through this blood. The girl’s frantic babbling clashed discordantly with the beeping of the monitors, filling Morgan’s ears until no more sound could reach his eardrums. 

He let out a soft gasp as a bony hand rested on his shoulder, his heart hammering in his chest. He blinked and saw Reid gazing at him inquiringly. Morgan took a sharp breath and simply shook his head. His face burned in shame and anger as Reid’s ever-observant gaze seemed to decipher his unwontedly panicked breathing, sweating, and shaking. He allowed the younger to gently guide him out of the room. The young woman’s muffled sobs echoed like a gunshot in his mind. 

“Is she having a stroke?” Morgan asked in an urgent undertone before Reid could speak, willing his nerves to settle down. 

Reid shook his head, chewing his lip as he observed the girl through the glass. “Unlikely. That appears to be aphasia.”

“What’s aphasia?”

“Aphasia is a language disorder that affects how people communicate, usually marked by an inability to properly read, write, or speak,” Reid replied mechanically through a glazed expression, suggesting he was reciting the definition from memory, “It’s caused by damage to the part of the brain that controls language expression and comprehension.”

“...Where’d you get that from?” Morgan asked with a raised eyebrow.

Reid rubbed his neck, stuffing his free hand deep in his pocket and dropping his gaze. “...Study from Johns Hopkins.”

“‘Course you did,” Morgan chuckled, shaking his hand as if to dispel its tremors before writing the phrase down. “So, is that normal for, y’know…this disease?”

Reid’s mouth thinned as he peered through the glass. “It’s not unheard of.”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and fell silent. Morgan’s stomach dropped. Reid’s unwillingness to dissect case matters further, especially when it involved facts about biology, was rarely good. He watched as Kimura tucked the blanket more closely around the girl, her pale cheeks stained with tears. 

She was probably barely over twenty. He clenched his fists as anger began to simmer deep in his chest. 

“You OK?” Reid murmured inquiringly, amicably bumping Morgan’s shoulder with his own.

Morgan sighed, gently bumping him back. Reid grinned softly as he did so. “Can anyone be OK after seeing something like that?”

Reid kept his gaze on the floor. “Fair.”

Kimura joined them a few moments later, her face stony, exhausted. “This feels like the plagues of Egypt.”

“The ten scourges created by God,” Reid murmured with a knowing nod, “Plague six was unhealable boils that biblical scholars believe were caused by anthrax.”

Kimura quirked a bemused eyebrow at Morgan before glancing back at Reid. “Never missed a day of Sunday school, huh?” 

“Actually, I’ve never been before,” Reid offered, furrowing his brow in confusion.

“What’s causing her aphasia?” Morgan asked, smirking when Reid huffed at him. Even after all these years, Reid still didn’t like it when Morgan outshined him. 

Kimura sighed, folding her arms. “The toxins are affecting her parietal lobe, impairing her speech.”

She looked sadly through the glass, watching the woman silently cry through a drugged haze as she gazed out the window. “Some of the other patients displayed the same symptoms shortly before they died.”

Her pronouncement preceded a thick, solemn silence. 

“So, none of the drug combinations are working?” Reid asked somberly, tilting his head.

“The only thing helping them right now is the morphine,” the doctor replied. 

Suddenly, a jarring alarm pealed out from a nearby ward. The three watched apprehensively as a small team of nurses rushed by with a cart of equipment.

“Excuse me, I must attend to my patients,” Kimura said urgently, sliding past the profilers, “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, but you’re running out of patients who can still speak.”

She dipped her head and hurried after the nurses. The two agents exchanged defeated glances before backing out of the nursing station and into a small waiting area with a vending machine and a few chairs. The harsh alarms echoed mutely in Morgan’s ears as he absently perused the vending machine’s wares with an unfocused gaze. A slew of emotions burned deep in his chest, causing his jaw to clench uncomfortably tight. What sort of maniac used a WMD on an unsuspecting crowd of normal people in a park? What kind of twisted mind could-

He immediately lost his train of thought when he heard a muffled groan of pain come from his companion.

He whipped around in alarm. Reid had sunk onto the nearest couch, his eyes screwed tight and jaw tilted heavenward as he rubbed a soothing hand over his stomach. The man hissed between gritted teeth, tendons twitching sharply in his neck.

“Hey man, you good?” Morgan called, his voice unexpectedly hoarse, “You’ve been acting weird all morning.”

Reid jumped, his eyes shooting open as he quickly cleared his throat. Morgan watched as the man hastily tried to arrange himself in a casual lounging position before desperately trying to hide another wince. The man avoided Morgan’s watchful eyes, brought his legs to his chest, and rested his chin on his knees. He wrapped his arms around them tightly, defensively. 

“C’mon Reid, what’s going on?” Morgan pressed, leaning against the vending machine.

Reid steadily avoided Morgan’s gaze. “‘Mfine.”

“You sure?” Morgan asked skeptically, crossing his arms and cocking an eyebrow at him. He didn’t believe that for a goddamn second, not with the way the man was holding himself.

Reid nodded jerkily, poking at a loose thread in the couch. “Think the Cipro isn’t agreeing with me.”

“Just the Cipro, huh?” Morgan asked, doubt threading his tone. 

Reid merely nodded again, briefly glancing up at him. Despite his mounting concerns for his friend, the victims, and their horrible location, Morgan couldn’t control his heart’s cooing. He wished he was the one with an eidetic memory so he could remember the exact way Reid’s soft brown curls tumbled over his forehead, his big, brown eyes gleaming softly in the fluorescent light as he looked up at him through long, sable lashes. The sharp lighting accentuated those prominent cheekbones and highlighted the patchy stubble on his pale skin like the striking details on a Renaissance painting. 

He quickly turned to face the vending machine, afraid of how telling his facial expressions could be. He cursed himself – how could he get so distracted from the case, from the plight in the next room? 

He sighed reprimandingly when he saw Reid’s sad reflection in the glass, the man’s eyes squeezed tight as he took deep, even breaths. “Did you eat dairy again?”

Reid’s reflection glared at him. “Not today. Unless you put milk in my coffee.”

“Did you even eat breakfast?” Morgan asked sharply.

“Well, no,” Reid replied, his voice hostile, “Someone barged into my house at all hours of the morning and dragged me to work. I didn’t exactly have time.”

“Alright, alright, that’s my bad,” Morgan chuckled apologetically, knocking on the machine’s glass front to get Reid’s attention, “Whatcha want?”

“Nothing. I’m not very hungry,” Reid replied quietly, hugging his knees tighter.

Morgan looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes. 

“...Fine,” Reid grumbled, rolling his eyes when Morgan smirked, “Something sweet would be nice.”

“Something sweet coming up,” Morgan chuckled triumphantly, selecting brands he knew Reid enjoyed and felt comfortable eating. Through the years of working with and eating alongside him, he had become all too familiar with the man’s unique preferences and texture aversions.

“...Thanks. I’ll pay you back.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Morgan replied amiably, “Here.”

Reid spluttered when a chocolate bar and a packet of his favorite peanut butter crackers bounced out of his hands onto the couch beside him.

“Nice catch,” Morgan remarked, filling two cups of water and placing one on the table in front of his companion. He smirked when Reid scowled at him.

“This is milk chocolate,” Reid said bluntly, tearing open the wrapper with his teeth without an ounce of hesitation, which definitely didn’t cause Morgan’s heart rate to spike and his mind to fill with very unprofessional thoughts.

“Like that’s gonna stop you,” Morgan scoffed, sipping his water to calm himself, “You’d think a genius would know not to eat dairy if he’s lactose intolerant.”

“I can’t help it dairy tastes good. I’m only human, after all,” Reid retorted, shooting Morgan a sassy grin before settling into a more comfortable, less defensive position. He began wolfing down the bar as he typed on his phone, protesting half-heartedly when Morgan ruffled his hair affectionately.

Morgan puffed a small laugh and rolled his eyes, his mirth fading as he gazed through the thick glass windows at Kimura and her team, who rushed from ward to ward, chasing alarms and talking urgently amongst themselves. The more he watched, the more that restless ball of anxiety in his chest leeched anger into his bloodstream – he saw too many bodies gently covered with crisp white sheets, too many children erupting in necrotic eschars. His jaw clenched impossibly tighter. 

“Not even Cipro is working?” he asked through gritted teeth. 

Reid looked up from his phone, wiping chocolate from his mouth. “Doesn’t seem like it, no.”

Morgan sighed, frustration clawing at his tone. Restlessly, he began to pace, rubbing his hands together to release some of the excess energy building in his chest like steam from a boiling tea kettle. 

“You don’t need to worry, though,” Reid offered, his tone artificially light to cheer him up, “Anthrax isn’t contagious from person to person, so you’re not at any risk here.”

Morgan curled his lip. “Man, I ain’t worried about that!”

Reid merely raised an eyebrow at the outburst, hurt crossing his face for a brief moment before he resumed a calm expression. He tilted his head, scrutinizing Morgan from head to toe with that soothing yet searching gaze that always seemed to bore deep into Morgan’s skin. Morgan winced, feeling a deep twinge of guilt. He hated his quick temper, and he especially hated how quickly Reid could calm it with only a look. He sighed, flopping down beside the man and bumping him apologetically with his knee. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his jaw and screwing his eyes shut, “I can’t think about myself when these people are dying. I just…I hate when there’s nothing we can do.”

He rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache brewing behind his eyes. God, he hated the horrible, screeching sounds of the failing life support, the grating alerts of the doctors’ pagers, the constant, constant beeping. Each sound dredged up those horrible memories of the night his father-

He jumped when a warm hand hesitantly, almost fearfully, rested on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Reid looking in his direction with sad, bloodshot eyes. Fear flickered in them when Morgan jumped, but his hand remained firm. He looked up into Morgan’s eyes, his gaze surprisingly unwavering. It was a moment of vulnerability for a man who avoided prolonged eye contact like the plague, a purposeful gesture Morgan knew was incredibly difficult for him to give.

“You hate hospitals, huh?” Reid murmured, his unsure grip gently tightening, thumb rubbing small, soothing circles into muscle Morgan hadn't realized was so tense. He felt them slowly unwind under Reid’s surprisingly powerful fingers, and he felt himself sinking unconsciously into the touch.

He chuckled sadly, breaking his gaze to study his hands in his lap. “That obvious?”

Reid gave a small shrug, chewing the inside of his cheek. “A little. You always go quiet when we’re sent to them. You also tend to stick to the exits or stand along walls, you pace or fidget-”

“What happened to ‘no inter-team profiling’?” Morgan interrupted playfully, though he hung his head in exhausted defeat. He heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders sinking.

Reid swallowed, quickly withdrawing his hand and rubbing it nervously. “Sorry. Guess it is pretty hard not to.”

Morgan merely grunted. He missed the warmth from Reid’s hand as soon as it was gone. 

The two sat in silence, Reid nibbling on his snacks and Morgan swilling the dregs of his water around the cup. Each was lost in thought, falling into mindless gestures and habit – Morgan absently accepted the crackers Reid instinctively shared with him, and they unconsciously shifted closer so their knees and thighs rested against each other with natural ease. Neither realized how reassuring each other’s gentle presence was to the other.

He wondered if Reid knew how much he thrived whenever the man accommodated his touchy-feely nature, whether the soft-spoken man could ever understand those gestures as words in his love language.  

A sudden text alert from Reid’s phone broke that insulated silence a few minutes later. 

“Report from Fort Detrick from Garcia,” Reid said through a muffled mouthful of crackers, waving his phone, “They’re saying the bacteria is replicating every 35 to 40 minutes.”

Morgan felt Reid’s watchful gaze follow him as he stood up and began to pace around the room. He huffed to himself as he realized he was exhibiting the exact behavior Reid had pointed out minutes before and opted to lean against the vending machine instead. “I’m assuming that’s unusual?”

Reid nodded, swallowing thickly. “That is incredibly fast for anthrax.”

Morgan rubbed his hands together, chewing his lips as he thought. “This thing is poisoning the lungs and eating at the brain faster than anything we can throw at it can even begin to stop it. It’s like the unusb amplified it to make it kill as fast as possible.”

Reid furrowed his brow, chewing thoughtfully. “I…don’t actually think that’s the case.” 

Morgan shot him a questioning look. “You saw that girl, man. These people are dropping like flies.”

“But the fact that we even know it’s anthrax speaks to this unsub’s level of organization and meticulousness,” Reid argued, hurriedly flipping through the file and tracing his finger along the text and over the images detailing lesion growth, “It’d take a lot of care and testing to make sure this strain and dose infects people slowly enough so we can tell it’s anthrax but kills faster than we can treat it…”

Morgan knew to be silent and simply watch the gears turn in Reid’s head. He loved watching the man think – he was just so goddamn expressive. Tiny muscles around his eyebrows and mouth twitched and furrowed as he thought, his lips gently moving as his mind raced and raced. They orchestrated a picture of soft, intellectual beauty, one that could always distract Morgan from the horrible thoughts and feelings that arose while dealing with this job. 

Morgan’s Fitbit chirped cheerfully on his wrist. He turned it off. 

Reid’s face always lit up when he got an insight, just like the way his eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up seconds later. 

“Whoever created this had to, at some point, go through the trouble of testing it!” the man spluttered, hunching over his phone and texting furiously.

“What d’you mean?” Morgan demanded, “We would have heard about another anthrax attack.”

“Not if it didn’t present itself that way,” Reid explained, frantically waving his hands the way he always did when he was trying to translate his speedy thoughts into words, “Think about it. Scientists usually work up to human testing. They start with rodents, then advance to larger mammals, and then at some point, they do a very small trial run with people.”

“Reid, 25 people are dying out here,” Morgan said, gesturing to the wing at large, “You’re calling this a ‘trial run’?”

“No, there’s no way this is his first human test run,” Reid continued, shoving the file aside as he stood up and paced, hands constantly moving, “Attack anthrax is used to cause as much suffering and damage as possible. It’s meant to send a message. If he made a strain that was too powerful or released the spores at too high a concentration, the victims would die well before anyone could assume it was anthrax.”

“So they would just die and no one would know he was the one who killed them,” Morgan said grimly.

Reid nodded and drummed his slender fingers against his chest. “Exactly. Unsubs who use anthrax need that recognition and notoriety, usually to forward an agenda.”

Morgan glanced at his phone as it buzzed in his hand.

“Rossi and Prentiss just texted from the crime scene, they said the park probably had some significance to the unsub.” he said slowly, “But this can’t be his main attack, right?”

Reid shook his head. “I highly doubt it. Why use something with as much infamy as anthrax just to kill a bunch of random people with no high-profile backgrounds at a playground?”

“So he’s got something big to prove,” Morgan sighed, “And he’s perfecting it with this attack,”

“Like I said, he’s a scientist,” Reid said, flopping back down onto the sofa, “We’re careful and meticulous, only moving forward when we’re completely confident in our results.”

Reid tilted his head when he saw Morgan pause. The man’s expression twisted into a minute frown as he seemed lost in thought.

“Did you hear me?” Reid asked.

“Yeah,” Morgan growled, shaking his head as if bouncing back from a train of thought and tapping his phone against his lip, “How the hell do we find his first human trials if their deaths weren’t marked as anthrax?” 

The two were quiet, looking at or close to one another as they thought.

“...We get Garcia or Dr. Kimura to look into mass, suspicious deaths within the past few days or weeks,” Reid answered slowly, “Anywhere from three to ten people within a localized area could indicate a trial run. Stuff like meningitis or inexplicable comas.”

Morgan quickly dialed on his phone, “Reid, you are a beautiful genius, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” Reid replied with a soft smile, dimples accentuating his cheeks as he rubbed his nape, “Well, the latter part, I guess. Can’t speak to the former.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, handsome,” Morgan said with a smooth wink and a crooked grin, quickly stepping out of the room.

Reid flushed. 

As Morgan called Garcia and relayed Reid’s search parameters, he didn’t notice the younger stoop to scan the bottom row of the vending machine, his hand clutching his abdomen.

Chapter Text

Thanks to Reid’s epiphany, the team was able to determine the unsub’s ground zero – a bookstore in Maryland where the owner and several shoppers had fallen unexpectedly ill with meningitis and died within three hours. But thankfully for Reid, he and Morgan were to report back to Quantico. He didn't think his motion sickness could handle any more of Morgan’s urgent driving and the man’s poor choice of music.

He also didn’t think he could stand any more time with this horrible tampon in. He could feel it with every step he took. A quick Google search on the ride back while he put up with Morgan hoarsely singing 80’s classics told him that meant he had probably inserted it incorrectly. 

But the thought of trying to adjust it or getting another made him feel physically ill and horribly, horribly dysphoric. It had been eating at him the entire ride back. He hadn’t felt this dysphoric since before he had started his hormone treatments, since he was a child. He had gone about much of his adult life barely even thinking about gender, so much so he sometimes forgot he was even trans. Constantly cracking criminal cases tended to keep him busy like that. But life had a nasty habit of sharply reminding him to never be complacent. Today was no different. 

As much as he hated to admit it, the chocolate Morgan got him had helped with the situation – he hadn’t realized how much he was craving it until the chocolate bar had landed in his lap. He could almost feel the endorphins light up in his mind when he took that first bite. As he walked alongside Morgan into the bullpen and past the BAU’s vending machine, he longed for another. 

But that draconian, paranoid voice in the back of his mind told him Morgan had gotten him the chocolate because the man knew about his menstrual predicament and, by extension, his identity. If that was the case, he was being…rather supportive. 

Maybe I could tell him one day.

He leaned against a wall in the BAU bullpen, hidden in some far corner away from the center of the chaos while Hotch delivered the profile. He barely listened to what Hotch was saying –  something about an obsessed, paranoid individual who was hypervigilant about an anthrax attack and would do anything to warn the nation about the dangers of the disease, even if it meant losing his job and his personal relationships – focusing instead on how truly awful he felt. 

His mind filled with chastizing thoughts. He really should have known this was coming. He was never the best at understanding his feelings and where they came from, being alexithymic at best and numb at worst. But the past week had been marked by episodes of swiftly changing moods that even he knew weren’t necessarily caused by the external stressors in his life. 

And what about those pimples that had been cropping up on his chin, the ones he desperately wished would go away lest people thought he was younger and more inexperienced than he was? Or all the bloating, even though he had been trying somewhat unsuccessfully to avoid dairy recently? All that, coupled with the fact that he had skipped a few doses of his hormones…it didn’t take a genius to make the cognitive leap and predict the return of a period. But it still blindsided him. 

He jumped when the room exploded with outraged chatter, signifying that Hotch had finished delivering the profile. The bitter side of his psyche snickered – he imagined the defense community wasn’t enjoying the news that the unsub was likely among their ranks. He rubbed his face wearily, feeling a headache brewing behind his eyes. 

He shook his head, gritting his teeth in annoyance. How selfish was he being by worrying about something as stupid as a period when they were dealing with an unstable unsub armed with a weapon of mass destruction?

Quit whining and get back to work, he thought angrily, shaking his head.

He knew he had a bottle of ibuprofen stashed away in one of his desk drawers, but the hostile figures on and around his office space snarling urgently into phones and slamming stuff around sent him towards the BAU’s personal pharmacist instead. 

Garcia’s lair was as dimly lit as it always was, and the garishly dressed woman was blissfully alone. Each of her monitors was on and opened to various materials pertaining to the case. Images of the lesions were on the ones farthest from her sight, and charts and public records were on the ones in the center of her kingdom. A small sound machine surrounded by fluffy plushies and gaudy trinkets sent echoes of crashing waves throughout the office, almost loud enough to drown out the chaos outside. He envied her – her sheer manic energy and personality were probably enough to ward off any Defense people who had tried to invade her space. 

He knocked gently on the doorframe with his usual perky rhythm. She turned, annoyance at being interrupted evaporating from her expression when she saw him. 

“Reid, we gotta stop meeting like this,” she said in a dramatically hushed voice, her bright pink lipstick gleaming in the half-light as she shot him a cheeky grin, “People will talk.”

“I doubt anyone is talking about anything besides this case,” he replied dryly, giving her a wan smile as she beckoned for him to sit.

“Fair enough” she drawled, grinning widely and adjusting her thick glasses as he sank into one of her spare chairs, “What brings you to my lair?”

“Pills?” he asked wearily, rubbing his eyes as he slid down the chair to avoid the scratchy, hand-knitted neon afghan hanging on the back.

“Oh, baby-boo, you’re gonna need to be more specific than that,” she chuckled, chewing on one of her feathery pens while spinning in her seat, “What ails you? Allergies? Headache? Heartache?”

“Just…just general aching,” he said with a wince, resting a hand on his abdomen as another cramp spasmed through him, “Any Advil?”

The eccentric woman wheeled her desk chair to one of her filing cabinets and hummed as she dug through the drawer cheekily labeled ‘DRUGS’. He wondered if Hotch had noticed it yet, or if he was too used to the tech’s antics or too exhausted to care. 

“No luck on the Advil front, mon cheri ,” she sighed a few moments later, “Best I got is some expired Tylenol or some Midol if you’re looking to embrace your feminine side.”

She shook the bottles in question like a set of maracas, grinning from ear to ear.

Reid puffed a laugh at her antics but sighed, extending a hand. “I’ll take the Midol.”

Garcia paused in her dance, shooting him a concerned look. “Wait, I was kinda joking. Can men even take it?”

Reid uttered a mental sigh of relief. At least someone still read him as male. He wiggled his fingers beckoningly. “Yeah, we can take it. It’s just acetaminophen, caffeine, and pyrilamine maleate.”

Garcia blinked blankly, shrugged, and tossed him the bottle. “Well, I only know one of those things, but I’ll take your word for it. Not my fault if it kills you.”

He snorted. “It won’t, I promise.”

Reid meticulously picked out his dose, taking care to uncross his legs and rest his ankle on his knee instead to help maintain appearances. Although he had trained himself to “sit like a man” from a young age, he sometimes acted on autopilot. He sank further into the seat, the sharp angle taking some pressure off his aching abdomen. 

“Here,” Garcia said, sailing back to her desk and reaching behind one of her monitors to open a pale pink mini fridge, “Have one of my finest beverages.”

Reid stared in bewilderment as she handed him an ice-cold juice pouch. “Didn’t Hotch say you’re not allowed to have a fridge in here?”

Garcia held a finger to her lips and then drew it against her throat, quirking her eyebrow and grinning devilishly as she did so. Reid smiled softly, stabbing his pouch with a straw and sucking down the juice. He could feel the cold liquid sliding down his throat as it chilled his ribcage, bringing some relief to his sore chest. 

“Actually, can I have those back?” Garcia asked, her bright red nails reflecting the computer screen as she made grabby hands to the pill bottle, “Aunt Flow has come to visit me too.”

Reid handed the bottle back without a word, far too focused on choking down the pills to comprehend what she said. 

“Well, I don’t mean ‘too’,” Garcia said hurriedly as she dumped an indiscriminate amount of pills into her palm like she was emptying a bag of M&Ms, “I-”

“It’s fine, Garcia,” Reid replied from around the straw, “I know what you meant.”

Her comment made dysphoria gnaw at his mind and stomp down all logic. Obviously, she meant nothing malicious – he knew men could have periods. He sat there bleeding himself after all. But his mind, addled with caffeine, a lack of sleep, fear, and hormones made him worried about passing more than usual. But a small part of him felt less alone knowing his friend was in a similar predicament. If she could power through it, he could too. 

He desperately wanted to ask her if she ever had issues with tampons, but he shot down that line of questioning fast. Garcia may not be a profiler, but she wasn’t stupid by any stretch of the imagination. Her ability to read people humbled them all at times. She’d find his question suspicious and wouldn’t have the tact to leave it alone if she construed it as something that was worrying him. He hated not being able to talk about his more ‘feminine’ issues with his friends, hated that quiet isolation. But he knew it was for the best.

Garcia went back to clacking on her keyboards. He briefly closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, gently rocking back and forth to dispel his anxiety. He often retreated to Garcia’s office whenever things got to be too much – he could almost always rely on her office to be quiet. He listened to the waves and took slow, deep breaths.

“Bit insane out there, isn’t it?” she remarked, eyes darting between screens. 

He grunted in agreement, sucking down more juice. He wondered if Garcia knew his favorite flavor was fruit punch. 

“Doing OK?” she asked in a worried tone, her nails drumming anxiously on her desk, “Besides the whole aches and pains thing?”

He shrugged, running a hand through his tousled hair and bouncing his knee. “I’m OK. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He watched as people marched past in the hallway, the sound of the soldiers’ boots echoing through the halls. “I admit, it’s nice to be out of the chaos for a little bit.”

“There’s some perks to having the military here, though,” Garcia said cheekily, following Reid’s gaze to eye up some of the muscular soldiers stationed outside, “Some very, very handsome perks.”

“I suppose so,” Reid replied noncommittally, ears turning red as his gaze quickly fell to the floor, “Anyone try to take over your office?”

Garcia smirked as she turned back to her computers, the screens reflecting in her glasses as she worked, “Yeah. They tried to set up some of their goon squad in here but that wasn’t gonna happen. I sicced ‘em on Kevin instead.”

“You directly disobeyed the Department of Defense?” Reid asked in amazement, sucking the last of the juice from the pouch.

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Doubt it’ll be the last, either,” he chuckled.

“Damn straight,” she smirked, shooting him a toothy grin as she fistbumped him.

They sat in an amicable silence, Garcia typing away and Reid chewing thoughtfully on the straw. Already, he felt minutely calmer. But nothing would fully dissuade the tension buzzing beneath his skin until he was under his weighted blanket in bed with his headphones playing calming music or recordings of Carl Sagan’s lectures. He huffed wistfully to himself, closing his eyes to try to take himself to that happy place. 

But as he daydreamed, he envisioned the same unusual scenario his mind had been creating for him for the past few weeks. He was still in bed listening to recordings under his weighted blanket, but oddly enough, Morgan was there. He melded with the fantasy like he had always been there. He lay asleep in Reid’s arms like he was such an important and recurrent figure in his life it was only natural that he was a part of Reid’s happy place, too. They always had soft, relaxed smiles on their faces as they dozed. Reid could almost imagine the weight surrounding him on all sides, his nerves settling a bit at the thought. 

But he swallowed. He was unsettled at how quickly his heart was racing.

“How’s our boy doing?” Garcia asked, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes.

Reid blinked rapidly, scolding himself as he chased away the daydream. “Who?”

Garcia rolled her eyes, her glittery eyeshadow glinting in the half-light as she moved. “Morgan. Who else?”

‘Our’ boy?

Reid gave a jerky shrug, swiveling his chair from side to side, anxiety mounting in his chest again almost instantly. “I dunno. He’s fine, I guess.”

He didn’t like how watchfully Garcia observed him. Unlike the rest of them, Garcia didn’t seem to know how to hide the fact that she was studying his behavior. Her mouth twitched into a cheeky smile as she seemed to take note of his rising blush, his anxious fidgeting. It made him squirm, his heart thumping heavily in his chest. 

“Why did you say ‘our’ boy?” he pressed, narrowing his eyes at her.

A smile pursed her bright pink lips, her expression mischievous. “No reason. He’s just our boy.”

“Historically, you’ve only ever called him ‘your’ boy,” he replied in a concerned undertone, racking his eidetic memory.

“Yeah, well, he’s given you a nickname, so I’m willing to share him,” she replied airily. 

“What does that have to do with anything?” Reid huffed, swiveling faster as his nerves clenched in his gut, “He gives everyone nicknames.”

She quirked a doubtful eyebrow. “Does he?”

“Well yeah,” he replied confidently, ticking off his fingers as he thought, “He calls you all matter of things, ‘Hotch’ is technically short for ‘Hotchner’-”

“-We all call him Hotch, that doesn’t count,” Garcia interrupted, turning to face him with a sly smile and leaning on her elbow. 

“Well, JJ is technically a nickname,” Reid hastily spluttered, averting his eyes from her impudent gaze.

“That we all use, next.”

“I…well, y’know,” he stammered, trailing off and rubbing his neck, feeling his cheeks warm up, “...I don’t like this conversation.”

“Aw, don’t you fret,” she cooed, patting his knee, “It just means he likes you.”

“He likes everyone,” Reid argued, pulling his knee away and tightly folding his arms across his chest as he scowled. 

“Not true and you know it,” Garcia countered, “Sure doesn’t like Strauss.”

Reid snorted quietly, rolling his eyes. “Who does?”

Garcia tilted her head as she thought and then shrugged in agreement. Thankfully, her pinging monitors drew her attention away from him and his pink face.

He really didn’t like where Garcia was going with this. He couldn’t handle a conversation about the odd thoughts of affection that floated through his mind, not when he was bleeding and especially not when they were investigating anthrax. He worriedly chewed the straw as he thought, the strain in his jaw soothing the swell of anxiety in his gut.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him call someone ‘pretty boy’,” she teased, watching his reactions.

He simply scowled, which only seemed to egg on her sneaky grin.

 “I thought he started calling me…that because he was making fun of my hair,” Reid eventually muttered, raking an agitated hand through his tousled locks. 

“My god, you can’t even say it,” she gasped. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled.

Garcia scoffed, reaching over to fluff his locks despite his protest. “Maybe for the first week of your rebrand he was teasing you, my dear, but c’mon. It’s been months. ”

“It’s probably just habit now,” he grunted, waving his hand dismissively. 

Garcia tutted, watching as he struggled to adjust his hair, “Reid, I know my Morgan. He definitely means it when he calls you ‘pretty boy’.”

Reid checked his watch, turning his chair away from Garcia. He couldn’t handle this line of conversation any longer. “Don’t you have more important things to do instead of gossiping about my social life?”

“Few things are more important to me than gossiping,” she replied smartly, but she returned to her desk all the same. 

She still eyed her friend out of the corner of her gaze as she worked. But Reid had become far too engrossed in his thoughts to notice. Maybe the medicine had started to kick in and freed up some of the mental processes that had been diverted to focusing on how much pain he was in. Still, he suddenly began running the nickname’s implications over and over in his mind through an analytical lens. 

God, what if she’s right? He thought to himself, What if he does mean it?

He sometimes dared to dream for longer than a few fleeting moments that maybe, just maybe, the BAU’s resident charmer had an interest in him, something beyond just friendship. Whenever those wisping yearnings flitted into his train of thought or popped up behind his eyelids on lonely nights, he banished them. He had been ashamed to even acknowledge he was even thinking about his coworker in that way, let alone analyze their interactions to try and see if the man was interested. 

He was surprised by the idea that Morgan might be flirting with him, flattered even, but did he really believe it? Or was his shameful, wishful thinking coloring his perceptions? And who was to say that wishful thinking wasn’t just an intrusive thought, the byproduct of spending way too much time in each other’s back pockets thanks to their busy schedules? 

But didn’t he always feel oddly… empty whenever they were separated on different cases, and didn’t Morgan always seem extra cheerful when they reunited? He always clapped the rest of the team on the shoulder whenever he returned from custodial interviews or in-services, but he always swept Reid into a hug as soon as he saw him. And didn’t Reid almost always feel calmer, almost sleepy in his presence, like he could fully let his guard down? 

Had that been affection?

And didn't Reid always feel an odd, angry pang in his chest whenever Morgan put his brazen charm and pretty face to use and flirted with anything with a pulse when they needed information from someone on a case? 

Had that been jealousy?

Oh.

Oh.

And there in that quiet office, while the US military was invading his space and threats of anthrax worried every mind in the building, he deeply and tangibly realized the only person who had ever called him ‘pretty boy’ might actually be interested in him.

He swallowed thickly, furiously scrubbing a hand across his stubbly cheeks. 

“Oh my god,” Garcia gasped, causing him to jump, “You are getting so red.”

Reid shook his head sharply and touched his face, spluttering when he felt how hot his cheeks were. “No, I’m not!”

Garcia’s expression of pure, unadulterated glee made him grow even redder. She swiveled in her chair to face him, excitedly drumming on her thighs. “You’re blushing!”

“I’m not!” he snapped, turning his chair away from her gaze and folding his arms tightly. For someone who wasn’t a profiler, Garcia sure had a knack for figuring out exactly what he was feeling. It was like she could hear how loudly his heart was pounding in his chest.

“Oh we are so talking about this later,” she squealed with glee, spinning his chair around and around like a child on the merry-go-round.

“We’re so not because there’s nothing to talk about,” he retorted, his face in his hands, suddenly wishing he was anywhere but the lair of the BAU’s biggest gossiper.

Garcia laughed loudly with utter delight, playfully swatting at his head, “Oh my god, you like him!”

“Oh sure, yell it out for the whole Bureau to hear, why not?” he hissed in a hushed undertone, planting his feet on the ground to stop her spinning and smacking her hands away with a scowl.

“You sure aren’t denying it!” she cooed, clapping her hands and wiggling with excitement.

He simply groaned, weakly shoving her hand away as she shook his arm with enough enthusiasm to accidentally dislocate it. 

“Oh my gosh, my little man is in love-” she sighed, placing her hand on her heart and wiping a pretend tear from her eye.

“Garcia, shut up-”

“How’re my two favorite people doing?”

Reid’s heart skipped several beats when the man in question knocked on the doorframe and shot them a dazzling grin. Reid swallowed sharply, quickly averting his gaze and cursing his face’s oh-so-noticeable involuntary response to seeing the object of his affection. 

“We are so good,” Garcia chirped, eyeing Reid with a toothy grin, “We were just gossiping.”

Morgan chuckled, sauntering into the room and ruffling Reid’s hair. “Gotta be something juicy to get this guy blushing.”

Reid flushed impossibly redder as he swatted Morgan’s hand away, grumbling under his breath and wishing he could just sink into the ground and never return.

“I gotta steal him away from ya though, girl,” Morgan said to the analyst, gently spinning Reid’s chair around and around, much to the man’s chagrin, “We’re headed to Dr. Nichols’ lab.”

“I’m getting dizzy, Morgan,” Reid growled, shutting his eyes and holding his head as he spun.

“Aw, sorry, sweetheart. Try not to puke,” Morgan teased, stopping his spinning and patting his head apologetically. The name and gentle touches had Reid very glad he was positioned away from the man, but he couldn’t avoid the delighted look on Garcia’s face at the sound of a fresh pet name.

“Sorry, whose lab?” Garcia asked, trying to fight a smirk as she watched Reid suffer.

Morgan leaned on the back of Reid’s chair and tilted his head to Garcia’s many screens. “We got a suspect. A guy from Defense should have sent you a vid.”

Garcia hummed, turning to her screen. “I don’t seem to have anything-”

One of the monitors pinged softly. “Oh, here it is. Ooh, is this a classified congressional hearing? I haven’t seen this one yet.”

“Yet?” Morgan and Reid echoed, craning their necks to exchange worried glances. 

“Classified hearing with the subcommittee on Defense and Homeland Security,” came a stern voice behind them. The three quickly turned and saw Hotch, a suit from Homeland Security, and an official-looking General with a broad chest decorated with medals frowning at them. A surly-looking soldier closed the office door firmly behind him. A terse silence filled the room.

Reid scrambled to his feet, furtively stuffing his empty juice pouch in his pocket and feverishly wishing he didn’t have such childish acne on his chin.

“General Whitworth, this is technical analyst Penelope Garcia, Dr. Spencer Reid, and Special Agent Derek Morgan,” Hotch said, gesturing to each of them in turn. Morgan shook the General’s hand firmly. Garcia merely gawked at him, fear in her eyes. 

Reid’s eyebrows furrowed minutely when the General’s beady eyes flicked up and down his skinny frame, a slight sneer on his lips when Reid waved instead of giving him a handshake. He held an air of derision about him, an aura of arrogance that came with an authority that selfishly demanded respect. Annoyance flickered in Reid’s gut when the General scoffed at him dismissively and looked impatiently at Hotch.

He disliked him already.

“Garcia, have you received the video we sent?” Hotch asked, feeling the General’s eyes boring into him as he looked at the tech encouragingly. 

“Oh, yes!” she squeaked, breaking from her fearful gaze and spinning quickly to frantically type on her keyboard, “Video I have never seen before, yes sir, right away.”

“Thank you,” Hotch said, quirking an eyebrow at Garcia’s suspicious filing cabinet and subtly positioning himself between it and the General, “Reid and Morgan, pay close attention, please.”

She clicked open the video. Reid squinted at the grainy quality, barely making out a disheveled-looking man sitting on the edge of his seat at a small table before a committee of senators. His thick glasses were perched precariously on a long, thin nose, making his eyes look beady and hawklike.

“That’s Dr. Lawrence Nichols,” the General growled, causing Garcia to hastily pause the video, “Used to work for us. Left in ‘02.”

“He didn’t leave,” the man from Homeland Security said smoothly, “He was forced out, for reasons you’ll quickly see.”

Reid observed the brief note of surprise on the General’s face, which was quickly replaced by a look of annoyance. He smirked. Like Emily, it seemed the General also didn’t like being kept in the dark. 

“Resume,” the General snapped to Garcia. The profilers stiffened, and the woman’s lips thinned as she venomously tapped the spacebar.

When the video resumed, the scientist began speaking in a nasally, squeaky voice, a nervous tone accentuated by his agitated shifting, bouncing leg, and unsettled fidgeting.

“Five people died in the 2001 Amerithrax attacks,” the man said, fiddling with the thick stack of papers in front of him, each page covered with frantic scribbling, “If you ask me, we’re lucky it was just five. We’re lucky that whoever sent these used cheap porous envelopes and not a…a crop duster!”

The man’s tone was getting increasingly manic, his gestures becoming histrionic. “America’s enemies are capable of wiping out entire cities! And we are woefully unprepared.”

Reid and Morgan exchanged concerned glances.

“Let’s review your proposal,” said a wary voice from within the committee. The group’s expressions were dotted with skepticism, concern, and slight fear. 

“Yes sir,” the man said eagerly, leaning forward in his seat with a frenzied glint in his eye, “Every household needs gas masks and a two-month supply of ciprofloxacin for each resident. Every major city needs hospitals with bio-safety decontamination capabilities.”

The lead senator gave the man a cynical look. “Regarding the budget for your proposition?”

“Anything short of 50 billion would be grossly negligent,” Nichols said firmly, looking at the committee with his chin high, as if daring them to decline his judgment. 

Discordant murmurs of outrage bubbled from the committee, echoed by Morgan’s tut of disbelief. Reid himself was surprised at the sum. 

“Dr. Nichols, you've got to realize how unrealistic that is,” the senator said, his tone riddled with disbelief, his mouth twisted in a mocking scowl.

The man paused, scrutinizing the committee with an eerie tilt of his head. “Unrealistic?”

“We can't justify spending that kind of money on an attack that may not happen,” the senator argued. His fellows murmured in agreement. 

The scientist suddenly shot out of his seat, slamming his hands on the table, causing Reid to jump. The man’s expression was fanatical, anger blazing across his features like a sudden wildfire. 

“You people are in denial!” he barked, his strident tone echoing throughout the chamber.

“Doing this would incite fear and panic among the public,” the senator growled firmly, subtly shifting his seat away from the aggravated scientist.

The man stamped his foot on the ground, jutting his jaw out sharply as he spoke, “This country should be panicked! We should live in utter fear of being attacked!”

“Dr. Nichols, please sit down-”

“I will not sit down!” the man shouted, rounding the table, “We live in a time of war and WMD proliferation! If you continue to be blind to our lack of preparedness, then Americans will die, and I will have no problem in pointing the blame at you!”

He jabbed a finger in the committee’s face, spit flying from his mouth as he forcefully pronounced the last syllable. Even with the grainy quality, Reid could see veins throbbing in the man’s neck, his face splotched red from sheer anger. 

The video cut off just as security escorted the man out of the room, his yelling fading as he was dragged out. The sound of Garcia nervously pressing the spacebar shot like a lightning bolt through the dismayed silence. 

Reid rubbed at the goosebumps erupting on his arms and looked to Morgan, whose lips were curled in disgust. 

“Committee said he was getting unstable, fanatical,” the man from Homeland Security said to the room at large, clearing his throat, “That’s why he was removed from Fort Detrick and railroaded from other prominent positions.”

“Dr. Nichols is well-respected in our community,” the General snapped angrily, “He believes in preparedness, not proliferation.”

“Well, he obviously felt like people weren't listening,” Morgan countered, tilting his head to the screen, “Maybe he was just trying to prove a point.”

“He had access to the bacteria, lost any chance at a prominent promotion after his proposal to the committee, and even got divorced shortly after,” the Homeland Security agent said, looking to Hotch, “Fits your profile.”

“He works for one of our subcontractors, but they don’t deal with anthrax, never have,” the General argued. 

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t get a chance to harvest his own samples before he was fired,” Reid piped up thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, “I’d be surprised if someone as hypervigilant about anthrax as him didn’t. I’m almost certain we’ll find samples in the lab he works at.”

The General’s searing gaze bored into him. Reid felt like his skin would catch on fire by the way the anger lit up his eyes. “Who are you again?”

Morgan and Hotch tensed at the distaste in the General’s voice, both frowning and leveling hard glares at the back of the General’s balding head.

“As Agent Hotchner said earlier, I’m Dr. Spencer Reid,” Reid said coolly, adopting a chilly smile, “I’m a profiler here at the BAU.”

“You’re a doctor?” the General asked derisively, his beady eyes glancing up and down Reid’s thin frame, “You look like you’re barely outta high school.”

An unwonted rage flared in Reid’s chest, fueled by his pain, exhaustion, and hormones. Who the hell was this bull-headed General to question his intellect? Any other day, he’d simply take the insults and keep his head low. Instead, he held his head high, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.

“I am a doctor. Three times over, in fact,” he replied frigidly, crossing his arms and doing his best to level the General a confident glare before ultimately settling on looking at the man’s chubby jowls, “What about you, General? How many PhDs do you have?”

Everyone stood in stunned silence, Hotch’s eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. Garcia sat frozen in shock and fear, eyes huge as she stared at Reid like he was a stick of lit dynamite. Morgan’s eyes flew wide open with a mixture of shock and awe. He quickly held a defensive arm out and moved in front of Reid when the General finally opened his mouth to respond after a moment of flabbergasted silence.

A vein throbbed on the red-faced General’s temple as he spoke. “You-!”

“-We need to bring Dr. Nichols in,” Hotch quickly interrupted, raising his voice and holding his hands out to ease the tension, “Reid and Morgan, I want you to go to his home and see what you can find. I’ll send Dave and Prentiss to his lab. General, I will personally keep you updated on their progress.”

Reid and the General gave each other one last cold look before nodding. The fuming General and the Homeland Security agent both left the room, leaving a sharp silence in their wake. Garcia sighed in shaky relief. Morgan lowered his arm, looking at Reid in quiet wonder. 

“Well, that was very girlboss of you, Reid,” Garcia chirped, smiling at him with pride.

“No, that was highly unprofessional,” Hotch growled, thick brows furrowed as his dark eyes bored into Reid’s, “What’s gotten into you?”

Reid swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I’m sorry, sir, he…he hit a nerve, I suppose.” 

“I understand we’re in a tense situation, but you need to watch your temper,” Hotch said warningly, the bite to his tone slightly undermined by the unmistakable glint of pride in his eyes.

Reid ran an aggravated hand through his hair, averting his gaze. “I will, sir. I’m sorry.”

Hotch gave him the slightest smirk before turning to speak with Garcia, not even giving Reid the chance to wonder if he should return the grin. 

Reid jumped when Morgan patted him on the shoulder. “C’mon, pretty boy, let’s go.”

Reid flushed a bright red at the use of his pet name in front of their boss, trying to ignore Garcia’s smug expression and Hotch’s surprised look as he followed Morgan out of the room.

Morgan stopped him just outside the office, crossing his arms and breaking into a crooked grin.

“Backtalking a General?” he asked in an undertone, eyes sparkling as he let out a low whistle, “Now that was hot.”

“...It was?” Reid asked with wide eyes, breaking into a hopeful grin and firmly meeting Morgan’s gaze.

Morgan laughed brightly, licking his lips as he looked Reid up and down with a lingering gaze. “Hell yeah it was.”

All Reid could do was giggle nervously, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling helplessly. 

He quickly tossed his empty juice pouch into Garcia’s bright pink wastepaper bin by the door when Morgan’s guiding hand returned to its spot on the small of his back. He paused, listening as Hotch spoke to Garcia sternly. 

“What’s in here?” their boss asked, the sound of a shoe knocking gently against the filing cabinet echoing in the quiet office. 

Reid and Morgan glanced over their shoulders to see Garcia looking at Hotch with wide, nervous eyes. “...Drugs, sir?”

They heard Hotch heave a weary sigh. “...Got anything for a headache?”

“Nice place,” Morgan remarked.

Reid glanced out the window as they pulled into the unsub’s driveway. The house was indeed nice at first glance, with a row of beautiful rosebushes adorned with pearly-white blooms lining the front walk. The front lawn, artfully dotted with birdbaths and sculptures, would have been nicely trimmed and smooth were it not for the line of hazmat trucks and police cars that had parked on it, people in bright red gear holding up instruments both outside and inside the house. A small band of cops was cordoning off the scene, urging nosy neighbors away.

The two profilers stepped out of the car, flashing their credentials to the harried-looking police officer who stormed over to them. Reid squinted at the house through the bright afternoon sunlight. His trained eyes surveyed the thick layer of dust and grime coating the windows at the back of the house, the assortment of tall, gnarly weeds piercing through the rosebushes, and an overflowing mailbox situated by a porch covered in dead leaves and stacked newspapers.

“Maybe at one point it was,” Reid said, shielding his eyes as Morgan came around the car, “But it’s starting to degrade now. Overgrown garden, dusty windows, full mailbox.”

“Nichols got divorced last year,” Morgan said, slipping on his sunglasses and looking around with a wary eye, “Maybe his spouse took care of the upkeep and he couldn’t keep up with the place alone.”

“Can you blame him?” Reid laughed in disbelief, surveying the spacious yard and the capacious garage, “This place is huge for one person.”

“Not all of us live in a cave, Reid,” Morgan said teasingly, nudging him with his elbow. 

“My place isn’t a cave!” Reid argued defensively, putting his hands on his hips and scowling as Morgan laughed with that pearly-white smile, “It’s cozy.”

“Sure,” Morgan chuckled, his gaze growing somber as he surveyed the hazmat team. They both listened carefully, unease carving their expressions as the machines and monitors slowly beeped, scanning the environment for any trace of the WMD.

“Do you think they’ll find anything here?” Morgan asked, tapping his fingers anxiously along his thigh.

“Mmm, I doubt it,” Reid replied thoughtfully, peering through the windows and past the haphazardly stacked boxes of junk to observe the eerie masked figures scanning the interior, “Scientists are particular. We’re careful – if he’s anything like me, and I expect he is given his clinical behavior thus far, he won’t like experimenting outside of a lab.”

Reid paused when he heard Morgan utter a low, almost imperceptible growl, his mouth thinning as he frowned. 

“...I’m sorry, did I say something to upset you?” Reid asked quietly, swallowing heavily as his mind raced through his past interactions, dissecting any social cues he might have missed.

“What? No, nothing like that,” Morgan replied hurriedly, averting his gaze and scratching his head distractedly, “Sorry, it’s just…I wish you wouldn’t say ‘we’ when you’re talking about the unsub.”

Reid blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. “But I’m a scientist, just like the unsub. It’s natural to make the comparison.”

Morgan kicked at a rogue weed and stuffed his hands in his pockets, his brow set. “But you’re not like the unsub.”

“I disagree,” Reid said thoughtfully, absently rubbing his chin, “I…actually see a small part of myself in him.”

Morgan cocked a concerned eyebrow at him. “You relate to the homicidal bioterrorist?”

Reid snorted. “Not the homicidal bioterrorist part, but…I can understand the feeling of not being taken seriously, especially when it comes to something that’s really important to you.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened.

“And thus far, he’s displayed a fair bit of meticulousness and attention to detail,” Reid said, clearing his throat to dissuade the awkwardness, “Like how carefully he’s conducted his tests. He’s fastidious to the point of paranoia, so set in his beliefs it’s like he’s afraid to truly share anything with anyone lest he get rejected.”

He sighed softly, rubbing his elbow and dropping his gaze. He swallowed when he saw Morgan adopt that solemn stare, the one they all used whenever they profiled someone. His lips thinned, waiting for some sage but unwanted advice. 

Instead, Morgan’s expression was gentle. “I don’t think you’re like that,” he said softly.

Reid rubbed his neck and gnawed on his lip. “Oh, I don’t either. I’m just…I just relate to him a little, that’s all. Part of the job.”

He hadn’t really noticed how soft and honeylike Derek’s eyes grew when the sun reflected on those brown irises at just the right angle. But now, all he ever wanted to do was keep noticing.

“Um…Why does it bother you that I compare myself to him?” he deflected, tilting his head.

Morgan shrugged. “I dunno. Whenever you say ‘we’ I try to lump you and him together in my head, and I just…can’t do that.”

Reid fell silent, observing Morgan as he tapped his foot agitatedly, shifting his weight from hip to hip. “This guy is awful, Reid. He poisoned a crowd of innocent civilians just because he wasn’t taken seriously at work. He’s twisted and you’re…you’re the total opposite.”

He stuffed his hand further in his pockets, gnawing on his lip and watching the hazmat team. “You’re sweet. Kind. Passionate. So yeah, I can’t lump you and this maniac in the same category.”

He turned and gave Reid a heavy look. “You better not either.”

Reid smiled softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “...Thanks.”

Morgan shot him a sad smile and bumped him with his shoulder, a gesture Reid was quick to return. He pulled away when his phone buzzed in his pocket, prompting him to quickly fish it out to dissuade the pleasant but unprofessional aura between them. 

Squinting at the screen, he said, “Apparently, Nichols just hosted a charity event here last month.” 

Morgan blinked and sized up the house with a skeptical look. “Here?”

Reid nodded, waving his phone for emphasis. “That’s what Garcia said.”

“That’s a hell of a behavioral devolution for someone who just hosted a charity event,” Morgan remarked, grimacing as he noted the junk in the house, which was clearly visible from the windows, “You’d wanna keep your house pristine for something like that.”

“Dr. Nichols didn’t strike me as the most organized person,” Reid replied dryly. He knew the feeling – trying to balance a full-time job while playing an active role in academia would be enough to drive even the most well-adjusted person to insanity. He tried not to think about the clutter in his own apartment.

“Maybe he hired a cleaner for the rooms he used for it,” Morgan said absently, taking quick notes on his notepad and wiping sweat from his forehead. 

The bright afternoon sun beat down on them heavily. Reid could feel pearls of sweat forming on his temples, the short hairs along the back of his neck growing damp with perspiration. He felt beads of it sliding down his back as he and Morgan walked around the yard, slickness chafing at his joints and along his already damp binder. He felt tension pooling in his chest like thick, fiery magma – he really wished he hadn’t dressed so conservatively, wished he could just go home and scrub away the day so hard his skin was raw-

“How’s it looking?” Morgan called to the hazmat team, startling Reid from his reverie. 

“Clean so far, sir!” one of the men called, puffing as he gave a thumbs up.

Morgan returned the man’s thumbs up and started up the winding walkway, beckoning for Reid to follow. Reid walked close behind, keeping his hand near his holster. He knew the police and the hazmat crew had confirmed Nichols wasn’t home, but he couldn’t shake the tension brewing in his chest. 

Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain shot from his hand all along his arm. He gasped, yanking his hand away from the beautiful but treacherous rosebushes he had brushed past. He hissed, wincing as blood began to drip down his throbbing finger, remnants of the thorn sticking out of his skin.

Unexpectedly, he felt anger boil deeply in his chest. His lip curled in disgust as he shook his hand in frustration. This is just insult upon injury at this point, he thought. The universe had been dumping misfortune upon misfortune upon him since the second he had woken up.

“You OK?” Morgan called when he saw Reid wasn’t following. He furrowed his brow in alarm when he saw the blood, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Reid grumbled through gritted teeth, picking out the thorn as Morgan jogged to his side, “Brushed against a thorn.”

Reid’s heart fluttered when Morgan wordlessly beckoned for his hand. The man’s deft fingers were gentle as he quickly examined the wound, and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized. Electrifying tingles shot up along Reid’s arm whenever Morgan’s skin brushed against his. It was a delicate gesture – soft, caring, and so utterly human.

He swallowed.

“Wait here. Lemme get the first aid kit in the truck,” Morgan said, patting his shoulder as he slid past, striding to the car with purpose. Reid tried to ignore the light, fluttery sensation in his gut.

“Morgan it’s fine, it’s just a cut,” Reid insisted with a sigh, sucking on the wound and fishing for a tissue in his pockets. He muttered to himself as he rifled around, Morgan chuckling as he loped back up the sidewalk. 

“Alright,” the man teased, “you’re the doctor.”

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” Reid huffed around his finger, rolling his eyes and sighing heavily when his pockets turned up empty.

“I know that, brainiac,” Morgan murmured, grinning smoothly with his tongue sticking slyly between his teeth as he held out his pocket square, “A real medical doctor would know not to put his pretty little mouth all over a cut. Lots of germs there.”

Reid froze, his finger still in his mouth as he blinked at Morgan with wide eyes, his heart leaping into his throat as the man gave him a smooth, sultry wink.

He was becoming fairly confident that Morgan truly did mean it when he called him ‘pretty boy’.

“...Someone’s done their homework,” Reid finally shot back after he gained some control over his frantically beating heart, wrapping the fabric around his cut, “There are over 700 species of bacteria, viruses, and fungi in the human mouth at any given time. It’s one of the dirtiest parts of the body.”

He swallowed sharply, pointedly looking Morgan’s fit, shapely form up and down with a hesitant smile, eyes lingering on his belt buckle. “Though I imagine you can think of dirtier.”

He smiled sweetly at Morgan before turning and hurrying up the sidewalk. He smirked to himself when he heard Morgan scoff in delighted disbelief. 

His heart hammered in his chest. Where the hell had that stroke of courage come from?

Morgan’s phone rang sharply, seemingly shaking the man back to reality before he could come back with a witty remark. Reid breathed a prayer of thanks. It seemed the universe was finally taking some pity on him.

“...Yeah, hi, Garcia,” he heard Morgan stammer into the phone, desperately clearing his throat, “Yeah, I’m fine, princess. What's up?”

Reid followed the narrow sidewalk around the house, brushing against the weeds that were starting to crawl over the cracked concrete. The area was more secluded, bathed in the shadow of the towering, unkempt shrubbery. He peered around a thickly tangled, overgrown bush and saw the door to the basement cracked open. It was well hidden – a patch of twisted, tenacious ivy tumbled over the glass, and untrimmed ornamental bushes concealed the freshly painted frame.

He knew Nichols was likely very secretive and protective of his research, so he was willing to bet they would find notebooks or other valuable insights there.

“Uh-huh,” Morgan said into the phone, pacing back and forth, “Yeah, we're here now.” 

Reid looked over his shoulder, watching a hazmat worker walk past with a monitor, and saw Morgan speak in a hushed tone over the phone, his voice muffled.

A soft fluorescent light spilled from the doorway. He signaled to Morgan. The man waved at him distractedly, busy talking on his phone. Reid rolled his eyes. At least he would know where he was once he stopped play-flirting with Garcia. 

There, was that that nonsensical jealousy again? He shook his head sharply to dislodge the thought, approaching the door.

“Sorry, what?” Morgan demanded, scratching his head and pacing in slow circles as he spoke, “The lab is clean? No anthrax at all? You're sure?”

Reid stooped to avoid the rampant ivy as he crossed the threshold, a pleasantly cool breeze wafting from within. Morgan’s pocket square slipped off his finger and drifted onto the concrete behind him.

“OK, I’ll let him know,” Morgan replied, sticking his phone back into his pocket and turning, “Reid, Rossi and Prentiss said the lab-”

He trailed off. 

Reid was nowhere to be seen. 

He turned, scanning the yard and the hazmat team for the man’s gangly figure, but he couldn’t pick that familiar silhouette out from the crowd. He swallowed sharply, his heart rate spiking. That constant knot of anxiety in his chest leeched electric tendrils of icy fear throughout his body, making the hairs stand up on his arms and hands. 

If the lab is clean, Nichols had to do his work here, he realized.

“Reid?” he called, hurrying down the sidewalk and trying to shove down the panic that was rising in his chest. 

Still no answer.

“Reid!” he shouted, breaking into a sprint and rounding the corner, “Reid! ”

He skidded to a halt and saw a derelict door only a few feet in front of him, partially concealed by gnarled ivy. It seemed to lead into the basement, clinical fluorescent light spilling onto the shadowed sidewalk. The door was wide open. 

His blood-stained pocket square lay limply just beyond the threshold.

No.

He sprinted towards the door. His eyes flew open in a panic when he saw Reid tumble into the doorway and slam the creaky door shut with such force the whole house rattled. 

Morgan grabbed the doorknob, wrenching it violently and yanking with all his might, gazing in horror at his trembling friend, “Reid, what’s wrong?!”

“Morgan, get back! ” Reid cried, his hair disheveled and eyes wide, one hand firmly on the knob so Morgan couldn’t open it while the other scrambled against the frame, searching for a deadbolt. 

“What the hell, man?!” Morgan snarled, shaking the door as Reid slammed the deadbolt over, his hands shaking, a vein popping in his neck.

“Believe me, get back, get out of here!” Reid insisted, fumbling with the secondary lock. Morgan felt it click under his grip.

“Reid, open the damn door!” Morgan snarled, pounding on the frame and leveling the man with a searing glare, nauseating fear careening throughout his body.

“Derek, I said get the fuck back!” Reid roared, unwonted anger blazing across his face and rage flaring in his eyes as they locked with his. 

Morgan stumbled back immediately, Reid’s rare swear ringing in his ear like a gunshot. The two stared at each other, panting heavily, separated only by a thin slab of wood and glass.

“Hey! ” Morgan yelled to the hazmat team, “Did you guys clear the basement?!”

“Didn’t know there was a basement, sir!” the hazmat man replied, jogging over.

“No. No, no, no,” Morgan breathed, putting his hands on his head and staring at Reid in horror, “Reid, please tell me there isn’t-”

Reid’s jerky nod cut him off. The younger man looked over his shoulder, the ghastly fluorescent light casting sickly shadows over his angular face. 

“Dr. Nichols is dead,” he said with a cracked voice, “There’s a lab setup and…”

He looked back, and Morgan saw tears brimming in his eyes wide, bloodshot eyes. “Derek, there’s white powder on the floor and the air is blasting.”

Morgan felt weak in the knees, his knuckles turning pale with how tightly they clawed at his head. “Oh, god, Spencer. ”

Reid rested his head against the glass, eyes slipping closed. “I’m sorry.”

Chapter Text

“I should have been right there with him, Hotch.”

“Morgan, there’s no time for second-guessing,” Hotch sighed heavily, hands on his hips, “What do we know?”

Morgan sighed, watching as General Whitworth roared orders to the hazmat teams. People had arrived within an hour, scores of scientists piecing together all matter of equipment and jumping into those horrible hazmat suits. They scurried around like ants, setting up a decontamination chamber and laying equipment on the lawn beside the door Reid was trapped behind. 

Morgan’s limbs felt weak.

He watched the skinny man through the clouded window. He was leaning against a desk, eyes closed and head tilted to the ceiling, his chest rising and falling like a smooth, billowing wave. He was close enough to where Morgan could see the shine of his curls, but he was still too far away to comfort, grab, drag away from danger- 

“Morgan,” Hotch urged gently, squeezing his shoulder and fixing him with an earnest gaze, “I know this is hard, but I need you to stay focused. What do we know?”

Morgan shook his head to clear his mind and nodded mutely, taking a shaky breath. “Uh, Nichols is dead. Blunt force trauma to the head. Reid…Reid thinks he’s been dead for two to three days.”

Hotch nodded thoughtfully, “So he can’t have been responsible for the attack.” 

“Agent Morgan?”

The two agents turned. Morgan breathed a silent sigh of relief as he saw Kimura hurrying towards them, struggling with a large equipment case she dragged behind her. Her pinched expression was pained. “Did I hear Dr. Reid was exposed?”

Morgan gestured to the basement. Kimura’s expression fell when she saw Reid, who was beginning to drum anxiously on his chest.  

“Kimura,” Morgan demanded, wringing his hands, “Reid took Cipro today. That means he’s gotta be OK, right?”

The doctor sighed, placing her equipment on the ground and brushing her hair out of her face. “We don’t know. It was only precautionary. It’s not helping the patients at the hospital.”

“But they didn’t take it until after they were exposed,” Morgan argued, tapping his foot agitatedly, “Reid took it before!”

Kimura hummed noncommittally, kneeling down to crack open her case. “We’ve never tested this strain on a Cipro-ready subject, so we don’t know if it’ll have an effect, even if he took it before exposure.”

Morgan’s hands fell to his sides, a heavy lump forming in his throat. “So he might…”

He trailed off, staring glassily at Reid through the window, hugging his arms against his chest tightly. A sour taste rose in the back of his throat, and his heart thrashed against his ribs like a caged animal. 

“Morgan,” Hotch interrupted quietly, holding up his phone, “I’ve got Reid on the line-”

Morgan snatched the phone out of Hotch’s hand without a second thought.

It felt like ages before help had arrived.

Hotch had pulled in first, the screeching of his brakes audible from the lab. Reid had scrubbed away the cobwebs and dust from a small window next to the door so he could get a better look at the freedom outside of this infectious tomb. He watched as Morgan and Hotch strode around, briefing the hazmat crew with poignant airs of authority and intimidation. 

He had sunk back onto an open spot on a messy desk situated under a pool of fluorescent light, eyes closed and head tilted upwards as he tried to stay calm. His racing thoughts careened around his mind, leaving his hands shaking and palms sweaty. 

Every mental health book he had ever read told him to take deep, calming breaths whenever his anxiety clawed at his lungs and squeezed the air from his chest. But his fear made each shallow lungful of that dry air feel like shards of glass in his chest and nose. Every breath gave him life, but every inhale of that tainted air brought him one step closer to death, to blood and necrosis filling his young lungs until he suffocated on his own immune response. 

He feared the sickness more than anything else, bile filling his throat when he thought of his skin erupting in those deep, oozing eschars. But for some reason, the gravity of the situation hadn’t really dawned on him yet. Anyone else in his situation would have been a panicky, sobbing mess by now. But perilous situations seldom panicked him anymore, at least not right away. It wasn’t until he was safe on the plane or secure in the car after a terrifying case or encounter that he felt the reverberating effects of brushing with death.

He had danced with death so many times, but it had never stuck around. Denial was his only sanctuary, the only thing keeping his mind intact. He knew his greatest asset in that stuffy cellar was within his skull – he could tear this case apart, find the cure, and send death on its merry way for another day.

I’ll be OK, he thought feverishly to himself, glancing up to see Morgan anxiously peppering Kimura with questions, following her around and gesturing to the basement. Reid swallowed thickly, his heart aching.

Right?

He puffed a soft, bitter laugh. To think his only problem this morning was the arrival of his period. 

Eventually, his phone rang in his pocket, shattering his quagmire of hollow thoughts. 

“Guys, I really messed up this time,” he murmured into his phone, leaning against the windowsill and watching Hotch, Morgan, and Kimura across the lawn with languid eyes. 

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Morgan snapped, his brown eyes fiery as he held Reid’s gaze from across the lawn, “We’re gonna get you out of there, bud.”

Reid furrowed his brow and shook his head. “What? No, I’m staying right here.”

“Are you outta your damn mind?” Morgan snarled, “We need to get you to the hospital!”

“Derek, I’m staying,” Reid said firmly.

“No, you’re not!” Morgan’s outraged voice faded, and Reid watched as Hotch took the phone, holding it close to his face as he spoke.

“Reid, be sensible,” he said heavily, the creases around his eyes intensifying and his broad shoulders sagging.

“I am being sensible,” Reid reasoned, glancing over his shoulder at the lab, “It’s not gonna do us any good if I’m not working the case.”

“He’s already infected. Not much we can do about that,” Kimura’s faint voice said, the doctor pulling what looked like a hazmat suit from a heavy equipment case.

“If Nichols made this strain, he might have created the cure,” Hotch said slowly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, his lips held in a taut grimace.

“My best chance at beating this is staying here, trying to find out who killed Nichols, and trying to find the cure,” Reid insisted earnestly. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Morgan hissed venomously, grabbing Hotch’s shoulder and shaking it, “Hotch, please talk to him!”

Hotch stayed silent, shrugging off Morgan’s hand and squinting at Reid with a thin frown. 

“I’ve got this, Hotch,” Reid said quietly, drumming his fingers against the windowsill.

After a few terse seconds of deliberation, Hotch nodded. Morgan’s ferocious snarl of exasperation echoed around the silent lab, and Reid watched with a heavy heart as the man scrubbed his face and clawed at his head.

“He’s right. His best chance is inside,” their boss reasoned, sadly patting Morgan on the back, “Reid, we’re gonna get a suit and mask in to you right away.”

“No point, I’m already infected,” Reid replied. 

“I’m coming inside to monitor your symptoms, Dr. Reid,” Kimura said, zipping up her suit.

Reid nodded heavily, watching with a pang of guilt as Morgan stormed around, kicking at clumps of grass. He could hear him quietly raging to himself, his movements sharp and brimming with anger. 

“Tell us what you see in there, Reid,” Hotch said, snapping to Morgan and miming a pen, the agent grumbling as he whipped his notepad from his pocket.

Reid looked around, reaching for a pair of nitrile gloves hanging from a dispenser by the door before investigating. 

In contrast to the house, the lab was fairly clean. The sterile, fluorescent lights flooded the room with a sepulchral glare, each rod buzzing faintly above him. He glanced at the overhead vent, a tiny red cloth tied to the slats fluttering to indicate the air conditioner was on. He shivered as he passed through the chilly blast, sweat drying into a salty crust on his skin. He skirted around the dried clots of blood coagulating around Dr. Nichols’s mangled head.

The horribly sweet, gaseous scent of death stung his nostrils as he observed metal cages filled with dead animals, ranging in size from mice to monkeys. Each animal was encrusted with thick, necrotic lesions, their peeling skin stretched taut over their decaying frames. Reid swallowed sharply, running an aggravated hand through his hair.

His skin crawled, every itch or tingle harboring gruesome potential. His gaze fell on the shattered test tube on the floor only a few feet away from him. How much of that cakey powder had settled into his lungs? How quickly would his own skin erupt with those horrific, pus-filled boils?

“Reid?”

“Sorry, Hotch,” he murmured, looking away from those crusty lesions and scratching at his arms, “I see cages with dead animals. Each shows signs of extensive anthrax testing.”

“OK, what else?”

Reid nudged at a shard of glass on the floor. Broken beakers and flasks were scattered across the tile, glinting like ice in the cold light. Dozens of papers, each riddled with red annotations and hasty diagrams, drifted in the constant breeze, their corners blackened with dried blood. A chair and table had been ferociously flipped, leaving skid marks on the ground.  

“I see signs of a struggle,” he said, noting how the debris ended where Nichols’s greying, bloating corpse lay, “Probably from when Nichols was murdered.”

“Anything else?” Hotch asked.

“Doing good, Reid,” Morgan’s tense but reassuring voice came through, causing Reid’s chest to clench. 

Reid’s throat felt tighter with every word Morgan said. God, he had never realized just how soothing the man’s voice was to him, even if he was poking fun of him or singing horribly in the car. He never wanted him to stop talking now. How could he have ever wanted him to stop talking? He swallowed thickly, his voice getting stuck in his throat as he shakily breathed, burning, salty tears blurring his vision. Sharp shards of fear and dread pierced his chest, his already tight lungs growing tighter as he tried to just breathe-

“He’s hyperventilating,” he heard Hotch murmur, “Morgan, talk to him.”

Morgan’s voice became louder, Hotch likely handing the phone to him. “You got this, pretty boy, don’t panic. Deep breaths.”

“H-How the hell am I supposed to take deep breaths when the air is infested with anthrax?” Reid gasped, reaching for one of the only upright chairs and sinking shakily into it. He held his hand over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut, horrific spasms of panic forcing him to rock back and forth. 

“Think about the profile,” Morgan soothed, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice, “All Nichols really cared about was keeping people safe, but he was also paranoid. That cure has gotta be in there somewhere, probably pretty well hidden, but if anyone can get into this guy’s mind and find it, it’s you.”

Reid looked over his shoulder, watching Nichols’s hair fluttering limply in the icy blast. All the answers he needed were locked in that rotting head, the truths and facts that would unravel his demise woven deep in the membranes and brain matter that leaked like a sickly sludge from his harshly jagged skull.  

He nodded shakily, taking deep, shuddering breaths as he gently rocked back and forth, tugging at his collar to soothe that horrific constriction in his throat. Morgan was right. God, he was always right, the bastard.

“Keep looking. You know you’ve got this,” Morgan encouraged, “And you got us here to help you, OK?” 

“...I’ve got this,” Reid repeated in a raspy whisper, body starting to still.

“You’ve got this,” Morgan echoed gently, “I know you do.”

“OK,” Reid replied, licking dry lips and rising shakily, “OK. Uh, give me a second.” 

He peered into haphazardly opened cabinets and glanced around at the loosely organized shelves. He noted an empty box of syringes and beakers missing from a complete set in an overhead compartment. Inquisitively, he traced a finger over the dusty outline of where a microscope once stood.

But most notably, there was an empty section within the small live samples fridge tucked neatly beside the large, messy desk situated by the door. 

“There are some samples missing, as well as some equipment,” he reported, “The unsub is probably a scientist too.”

“Good,” Hotch said, “Anything that can give us insights into who took the samples?”

Reid hummed absently as he thought, turning on his heel as his keen eyes skittered around. This room was the symphony of the day’s events, the grave of the scientist who lay lifeless on the floor, and the place Reid refused to die in. It was a freeze frame in time, a diagram his quick eyes and skilled brain were expert at analyzing. He knew there were people who had faith in his ability to sift through the chaos to pick out the key information he needed to get out alive.

He couldn’t let them down.

He rifled through the disjointed stacks of paper, crumpled notebooks, and trash scattered around on the wide desk. “I see a large desk. It’s got clutter all over the surface.”

Hotch’s silence spurred him to keep looking. He took a steadying breath, wobbling as he avoided Nichols’s corpse. The lights buzzed sharply above him, gusts of cold, dry air raising goosebumps along his skin. The samples fridge hummed, forming a discordant harmony with the lights, his heart racing and his hands clenching to get him through all the smells, sights, sounds, and the horrible realization that his throat was starting to hurt-

“Still there, Reid?” Morgan’s voice came through, his tone tinged with fear, “We can’t see you.”

Reid blinked, raking his hand through his hair and breathing quickly to calm himself. “Yeah, yeah I’m here. Uh, there’s another smaller desk in the corner.” 

The diminutive desk stood humbly in the shadows. To Reid, it told a very different story than the chaotic tale on Nichols’s desk – each item was perfectly aligned, tucked neatly into organizers, or neurotically placed at just the right angles. He flipped through notebooks categorized alphabetically and ran a hand over bundles of cable and wire that were neatly tied down. Each stack of paper was fastidiously organized – even the pens within the container were organized by color. 

“This workspace is a lot more organized than Nichols’s,” Reid said, chewing his lip thoughtfully as he glanced back and forth between the desks. 

“So there’s two different workspaces?” Morgan asked. 

“I believe so,” Reid said, scanning through the papers and scrutinizing the red annotations in the margins. Crossed-out phrases, notes, and suggestions littered the pages. The jittery red letters tied together with angular cursive flowed more frantically than the stern, rigid letters of the main text. The annotations were jagged, indecipherable, written by a much more high-strung hand than the text was.

“There’s two different sets of handwriting,” Reid said, eyes wide as he held up a well-worn but well-cared-for notebook, thumbing through pages filled with the same rigid, blocky handwriting, “There’s instructions on how to boil lab-grade broth, sterilize equipment, and transport spores.”

“But Nichols would know how to do all that, right?” Morgan said.

“Definitely,” Reid replied, picking his way through the minefield of blood, glass, and rotting flesh to peer through the window, “Even I know how to do most of that.” 

Sad, aching warmth radiated from his chest when he watched a smile of relief bloom on Morgan’s face when he appeared in the window. 

“He must have had a protege,” Reid rasped, a slow, burning scratch brewing deep in his throat.

“Let’s get back to the BAU, try to figure out who that could be,” Hotch directed, his expression steely.

“Hotch, I’m staying with him,” Morgan objected with a growl, his smile disappearing as he angled himself away from the man, hoarding the phone like it was a precious treasure. 

Reid watched as Hotch nodded knowingly and pointedly reached for his phone. Morgan sheepishly placed it in his palm.

Hotch put the phone off speaker and held it to his ear. “Relay all information to me, please.”

“We will,” Reid answered, clearing his throat.

Hotch nodded to him, the lines along his forehead creasing as he let rare concern and pity show on his face. “Find that cure, Reid.”

Reid nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“You will. Good luck.”

He watched Hotch hang up and share a few urgent words with Morgan before striding away. He strained his ears to hear what Morgan was saying to Kimura. The man’s expression was pleading, and his gestures were desperate. But the doctor kept shaking her head until they both walked out of sight, Morgan following along behind her like a wolf nipping at her heels. 

And suddenly, in that chilly, tomblike lab, he felt horribly alone.

He tapped his phone against his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the anxiety brewing in his gut to settle with each shuddering breath that flowed past his dry, cracked lips. He wanted water, a cure, and most of all, he wanted Morgan back in his sight. 

He jumped when his phone rang in his hand. He hurried to answer when Morgan’s familiar number showed up on the screen.

“Hey, Spencer,” Morgan said softly, giving him a small wave as he walked back into view, “How you holding up?” 

Reid felt an unusual, warm feeling flicker in his chest upon hearing Morgan say his first name.

“Why’d you call me that?” Reid asked with a quiet tilt of his head, breathing a muted sigh of relief at the sight of the man.

“Because it’s your name?” Morgan replied, rolling his eyes like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it was something he said every day.

“I’m aware,” Reid chuckled, “You just never call me that so it sounds...odd. Not unpleasant, just strange.”

Morgan chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side.

“I might start,” he said airily, “It’s a nice name.”

Spencer smiled.

“...I’d be OK with that,” he replied, “But only if you let me call you Derek.”

Derek grinned.

“You’ve always been able to call me that, pretty boy,” he chuckled, “You can call me whatever you want.”

Despite the throbbing burn in his throat, despite the cramping discomfort in his abdomen, despite everything, Spencer couldn’t help but blush. He smiled.

“So, how you feeling? Everything OK so far?”

Spencer held back a cough, his saliva feeling like acid as he swallowed. “I’m…”

His voice caught in his throat as he locked eyes with his friend. Derek was so close – realistically, he could easily unlock that door, go out there, and sink into his arms. The man always showed his affection through physical touch, whether it was a pat on his back, an arm slung over his shoulders, or a hand ruffling his hair. He’d probably be more than willing to hug him.

More than anything, he wanted to feel the man’s strong arms around him, like a simple embrace was all that he needed to rid himself of the bacteria he knew was replicating inside him at a horrifying pace. 

“...I’m scared,” he whispered truthfully, his voice finally breaking.

Derek sighed softly and closed his eyes, rubbing his jaw. “I know, bud. I’m so sorry.”

“Derek,” Spencer murmured, “This is dumb, but can you…can you stay where I can see you?”

Without hesitation, Derek walked over to a weathered bench that was barely visible from the window. He yanked it out of the garden bed and dragged it back, trampling flowers as he went. 

“This bench is my new best friend,” he declared with a cheeky grin, testing the bench’s strength with a hesitant hand before settling down. 

“It’s childish, I know, but…I don’t wanna be alone,” Spencer murmured, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. 

“Not childish at all,” Derek replied firmly, resting his ankle on his knee and laying an arm over the back of the bench as he leaned back, “I ain’t leaving you alone for a second.”

Spencer smiled, resting his chin on his folded arms and simply holding Derek’s gaze for a few precious moments. Derek looked back, soft eyes never wavering, even in the face of death.

“I’m gonna get back to finding more about the unsub soon, I promise. I just…I need to take a breather,” Spencer murmured, heaving a heavy sigh that devolved into a painful coughing fit.

“Easy, bud,” Derek said softly as Spencer hacked.

Each wheezing cough felt like a twisting knife thrust, like acid was relentlessly eating away at his lungs. He felt like his chest was withering, organs becoming porous, dusty, and decayed. 

This time, Spencer didn’t fight the tears. They left warm, salty tracks on his cheeks, leaving a bitter taste in his dry mouth as they slid down his face. He bitterly wondered if Derek could see them.

“I’ll be here the whole time,” Derek murmured tenderly, “I promise.”

“Thank you,” Spencer gasped raggedly. 

“You got it, baby,” Derek murmured.

Spencer gave a watery chuckle, tears streaming around his soft dimples as he smiled. “You never call me that, either.”

“I might start,” Derek replied after a few moments. Spencer saw his face twitch, and given how smooth his tone was, he was willing to bet the man had winked. He really wished he had his glasses. 

“...You know what?” Spencer murmured, “I think I’d be OK with that, too.”

Derek’s eyebrows flew up in shock. “Yeah?”

Spencer gave a small grin. “...Yeah.”

“Good to know,” Derek replied, settling back into the bench, his pearly grin clearly visible even with Spencer’s poor vision.

The two gazed at one another, existing within a soft bubble of sudden tenderness. It was a sensation they had both skirted around for months, years even. They had poked at it from time to time to gauge one another’s interest, tossing about the occasional wink or an airy compliment that always fell well outside the bounds of a normal work relationship. Both prodded, but neither swayed.

But life had gotten in the way – there was always another case to distract them, and there were fraternization rules that scared them. Both were clouded in the denial that came with youth. They had their entire lives ahead of them to figure out these feelings, feelings that grew stronger and more undeniable every day. 

But there, in that infectious basement and that sweltering garden, something had deeply, inherently changed between them. Death’s rotting breath pulsed between them, infiltrating their thoughts and filling their hearts with regrets. Something bittersweet had blossomed there, growing unchecked for far too long. But now, heartache dug into their souls like a honeyed thorn, filling them with soft, gut-wrenching anguish.

But as they held each other’s gazes, hope began to resonate in their hearts. 

They’d be OK. 

They had to be. For each other. 

Spencer blinked when he heard a faint voice calling the agent’s name in the background. Derek sat up quickly and looked over his shoulder for a few moments before giving a thumbs-up.

“Kimura’s gonna be in soon,” he sighed heavily, looking back to Spencer with solemn eyes, “I’d be right in there with you if she would fuckin’ let me.”

Spencer gave a sad laugh at the frustration in Derek’s voice. “She’s right to forbid it. It’s not worth the risk.”

“It is for me,” Derek asserted firmly without an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

Spencer was amazed at how Derek could speak from his heart so easily, like his loyalties and emotions were pure, objective fact. Spencer wished he could have an ounce of that vulnerability, so he could tell the man everything he had been wanting to say for years-

“But she’ll be able to keep you company, at least,” Derek said reassuringly, resting his elbows on his knees and restlessly tapping his feet.

“She’s not you, though,” Spencer grumbled bitterly, the words slipping past his cracked lips before he could filter them. 

Perhaps some of that courage had found him after all. He grimaced, squinting to see Derek’s reaction, heart hammering nauseously in his chest. 

“I know,” the man sighed, his shoulders sagging, “I’m sorry. I would if I could.”

Spencer smiled gently, relief seeping through him when Derek didn’t reject such a charged statement. “I should get back to work. I don’t want my battery to die.”

“You know where I am if you need me,” Derek said, flicking him a small salute.

“Bye,” Spencer murmured, reluctantly hanging up and giving Derek a small wave before taking a deep breath and returning to the hectic scene behind him. 

He had to make some calls. 

The phone rang only once.

“Hey, Reid,” Garcia answered in a hollow murmur, melding with the soft reverberation of her oceanic sound machine. He winced as he heard her voice catch in her throat. 

“Gee wow,” he chuckled sadly, “no witty Garcia greeting for me?”

She heaved a blustery sigh, the audio crackling at its force. “I can’t be my usual sparkly self when you are where you are.”

He flopped down into the chair at the small desk, rubbing his aching eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she hissed tearfully, her faint typing coming to a sharp halt, “It’s not your fault some horrible person dosed the place with anthrax.”

“I know,” he replied softly, pressing his hand weakly against his damp forehead. 

He was starting to feel warm. 

“I doubt you’re calling just to chitchat though, right?” Garcia asked lightly, sniffing faintly, “You need my help finding the cure?”

“Actually, I need you to do something for me that doesn’t really involve the case,” he said, biting his lips and studying his shoes. His heart thumped nauseatingly hard in his chest, his face twisting into a grimace.  

Her typing stopped. “Anything.” 

“I, uh,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head and fighting through the lump forming in his throat, “I can’t call my mom without…without alerting everyone at her hospital.”

“Understandable,” Garcia murmured gently, “What can I do?” 

He swallowed. “Can you record a message for her? In case something happens to me?” 

Her voice became artificially cheerful as she scoffed. “Oh, nothing’s gonna happen to you, love. You’re gonna use that big brain of yours, brilliantly find out who did this, and treat this strain.”

He puffed a cynical exhale, leaning on his elbow and closing his eyes. “I hope you’re right, but if you’re not…I just really want to make sure she hears my voice.”

“...You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?”

He couldn’t bring himself to respond with anything more than a hum. 

“OK, just give me a second,” she said, her furious typing audible over the phone.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” he mumbled.

“OK,” she said quietly a few moments later, “Go ahead.”

He took a deep breath, his tongue feeling useless as he struggled to find the right words. He’d spent countless nights thinking about what words he would say to his mother if she ever became lucid enough to understand or if he ever scrounged up enough courage to utter them.

But now, he just felt empty and terrified. 

He just wanted his mother.  

“Hi, Mom, it’s Spencer,” he chirped cheerfully with a strained voice, coughing slightly to clear the stinging in his throat, “Um, something…something really bad happened to me. At work. I, uh…”

His lips wobbled dangerously, his puffy eyes stinging.

“Just, um...I just really want you to know that I…I–”

His face burned as he fought back a sob, his hands trembling as he tried to keep his grip on the phone. Dread filled every vessel in his body, plucking at his frayed, decaying nerves and gnawing at every corner of his overactive, hypochondriac mind. 

“Mom, I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.”

He swallowed thickly, physically unable to speak further. 

“Reid?” 

“That’s all, thanks,” he whispered, his voice breaking. 

“I got it Reid, don’t worry,” she murmured gently.

He rested his burning forehead on the cool metal of the desk, pondering about how fortunate he was to be able to record his last goodbyes. He snickered bitterly. Was there luck in a situation where his incurable demise was fermenting deep within his very lungs, where death’s cruel approach was slow but guaranteed? 

Garcia’s voice cut hazily through his thoughts. “Is there anyone else you wanted to call? Or leave…leave a message for?”

He lifted his heavy head and looked to the window behind him. Soft afternoon light from the garden spilled onto the blood-soaked floor like a beckoning. Very faintly, he heard Derek arguing with someone on the hazmat team.

He sighed, burying his head in his arms. “Not call, necessarily, but…Please, tell Derek that I…that I…”

He sniffed heavily. 

“God, you were right, Penelope. You’re always right,” he whispered, wiping a bitter tear away with aggravation, “Please, tell Derek and only Derek that I…”

He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“I will,” she said, her tone firm, determined. 

He blinked languidly, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do,” she giggled sadly, “I told you we’d talk about this later.”

He couldn’t hold back a tearful laugh. “...Shut up.” 

“I’ll tell him if it comes to it, Reid,” she murmured in a quavering voice, “But you’re gonna be able to tell him first.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

They held a gentle silence between them, fueled by denial and glimmers of hope, by the prospect of love and the grim nature of decay. 

“I love you, you dork,” she murmured. 

He swallowed thickly past the hot lump stuck in his throat. “...I love you too,” he mumbled.

His phone beeped, indicating someone was calling him. “I’m getting another call, Garcia. I…I gotta go.”

“Stay safe, my angel,” she sighed, her tearful sniff cutting off as he hung up.

He answered the next call with a wheezing cough.

“Dr. Reid, it’s Linda Kimura,” the clipped voice on the other line said, “Agent Morgan gave me your number. I’m about to come inside. Is that OK?”

Spencer sniffed and wiped those traitorous tears from his face as he trudged over to the window. He saw Kimura waving to him just outside the decontamination chamber, Derek resolutely at her side. The man gave him another small salute.

“Hi,” Spencer said wearily, rubbing his temple to soothe a mounting headache, “I’m ready, but I should warn you there’s a corpse in here with me. Will that affect you?”

Kimura chuckled. “I learned about the human body through cadavers, Dr. Reid. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

He simply nodded. 

“Please open the door when I come down and close it behind me, OK?” she asked. He gave a thumbs up, hung up, and quickly wiped his nose, blinking heavily. He walked over and unlocked the door once Kimura knocked, closing it swiftly behind her. She looked so much taller dressed in full hazmat gear. Even though he didn’t know her well, it was nice to have someone else trapped in this deadly prison with him. 

“You look nice,” he chuckled dryly, trying to lighten the mood. 

Kimura laughed and gave a small twirl, surveying her apparel. “Been a while since I’ve worn this getup.”

“How are your patients doing?” he asked, clearing his throat.

The woman paused for just a brief moment, dread flickering in her eyes for hardly a second before she assumed a gentle smile. 

“Let’s worry about you,” she said softly, placing her case on the ground by the door and gazing at him with gentle eyes, “How are you feeling?”

Spencer swallowed heavily, leaning against the wall and scratching his neck. Suddenly, he felt defensive. His hopeful facade began to crumble as he scanned his body. He didn’t want to let on how much his throat burned, how harshly his chest ached, how heavy his head felt, or how chilly and achy he was becoming-  

“I actually feel fine,” he said in a light voice.

Kimura snorted, rifling through the case and tossing him a bottle of water. “For a profiler, you sure are a bad liar.”

He caught the water and sighed mutely, rubbing his head. “...I’ve got a bit of a sore throat. Maybe some aches and pains.”

She nodded attentively, her quick eyes scanning him up and down. Her analytical gaze felt intrusive, like she was peeling apart each layer of his skin in search of the pathogens multiplying beneath. He sucked down the water as best as he could, the cold liquid soothing his sore throat for only a few precious moments.

“You look a bit pale,” she said, carefully withdrawing an electronic thermometer, “I’d like to take your temperature and check a few vitals, OK?”

Spencer shook his head gingerly, taking a small step back. “I really just want to focus on the case.”

“And I promised Agent Morgan to keep you comfortable while you do so,” she replied calmly, “I’ll only take a few moments of your time.”

Spencer begrudgingly perched on the closest desk, keeping his gaze on the floor while she took his temperature. The machine gave off a series of alarmed beeps, the concern mirrored on Kimura’s face.

“You’re starting to get a bit of a fever,” she said lightly, noting his sweaty appearance.

“I figured,” he mumbled, hugging his arms to himself, unable to hold back a shiver.

Kimura strode to the thermostat, pausing for a moment to map a route around Nichols’s corpse, and lowered the air conditioning. Spencer mentally rolled his eyes – if he could use his brain towards any sense of self-preservation, he would be unstoppable. 

“Finish that water,” Kimura ordered, reaching into her case, “Can I have your finger please?”

Spencer held up his hand as he choked down the rest of the water, his arm feeling like it was made of lead. Kimura froze just before clipping a small device onto his hand. 

“Dr. Reid, did you cut yourself?” she asked, her eyes wide in alarm. 

Spencer gazed down at his finger, his chest filling with a frantic, burning terror as he saw the cut from the thorn earlier in the day had started to bloat into an angry-looking blister, the edges growing black. He gasped, shaking it instinctively. 

“I got snagged on a rosebush right before I came inside,” he whispered, staring at Kimura with horror.

The doctor quickly retrieved a piece of gauze and tape from her kit and efficiently wrapped the finger tightly until the lesion was out of sight. 

“You and I both know covering it won’t do anything,” he chuckled raspily, squeezing his hand tenderly into a fist and wincing. 

“Maybe, but it’ll do wonders for your psyche,” she replied calmly, but he could tell she was hiding concern under a well-practiced facade of professionalism, “Out of sight, out of mind.”

“I find the placebo effect doesn’t really work on me,” he said, breaking into a harsh coughing fit. Each harsh convulsion of his diaphragm felt like a lashing on his ribs, the dry air pummeling against the soreness of this throat like lighting. Once it came to a wheezing end, he uttered a soft groan.

“Feeling fine, huh?” Kimura asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I might have lied a little,” Spencer snapped defensively as she clipped the device onto another finger. He tried to avoid reading the numbers – he knew it was detecting the oxygen saturation in his blood, and he also knew his wheezing chest was already an indication of how well he was breathing.

“If you’re in pain, I can give you something,” she said as she took off the clip, reaching for a bottle of pills. 

Spencer felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck when he read the label. 

Hydromorphone.

Dilaudid. 

His heart rate quickened, and he licked dry lips, eyes fixed on the bottle. He balled his hands into fists as best as he could, trying to still his trembling fingers. Through shaky breaths, he fought down a sudden draconian chorus of thoughts, that venomous voice at the back of his head screaming, begging for a hit-

“...Dr. Reid?”

“Uh, no, I-I’d rather not take any pain medication,” he stammered, swallowing thickly and wincing at the horrible sting in his throat, every ounce of pain and discomfort suddenly magnified a thousand times over in his mind, pulsing like a miasma under his thin, pale skin.

Maybe one hit wouldn’t be so bad, right? 

He snarled softly to himself, violently shaking his head and rubbing his inner elbows. 

Kimura’s brow furrowed. “It’ll at least make you feel more comfortable-”

“I am comfortable and I do not want to take any narcotics,” he snapped through gritted teeth, avoiding the doctor’s gaze, his face heating up with shame. 

Kimura paused, her brow furrowed in confusion before sudden realization lit up her eyes. Spencer tried to look everywhere but her knowing gaze, her brief expression of horror wounding his already fragile, practically non-existent pride. She nodded jerkily, quickly resuming a face of professionalism. 

“OK, no narcotics,” she said, stashing the pills away, “At least let me give you some Tylenol.”

Spencer nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. “That’s…that’s fine.”

Kimura glanced around while Spencer choked down the pills she gave him. He shakily hauled himself to his feet, brushing his damp hair out of his eyes. 

“Dr. Reid, I think you should sit down and wait for the medicine to kick in,” she said gently, reaching up and placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him back to his seat but jumping when he violently recoiled. 

“I really don’t like being touched,” he rasped, hugging himself tightly. 

“I’m sorry,” she said with a wince, gesturing to the chair instead.

“I need to figure out who this guy is,” he grunted, taking an unsteady step. He winced as his ears rang, the corners of his vision getting fuzzy. 

“I think you should sit for a bit first,” Kimura said, moving the chair so he could sink into it, “Tell me how I can help.”

“...Think I should sit for a bit first,” Spencer parroted back in a hazy voice, holding his head in his hands, electric shocks of pain fritzing from his joints.

“Tell me how I can help, Dr. Reid,” Kimura repeated firmly. 

Spencer nodded, taking a deep breath, willing his dizziness away. “I think the cure is in here somewhere.” 

“OK,” Kimura said, hovering her hand over Nichols’s desk, “Should I start here?”

Spencer nodded absently, wincing as every sound of Kimura shuffling through the mess stung his tender ears like a blaring symphony. 

“There’s binders and binders of course syllabi,” Kimura said with a note of interest, whistling with admiration as she flipped through the pages, “They go all the way back to the seventies.”

“Good information, but I don’t think he’d hide the cure in a binder,” Spencer snapped. 

Kimura paused. Spencer breathed a small sigh, shame reddening his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, hiding his face in his hands, “I’m…I’m in pain.”

“No need to apologize, I get it,” she said encouragingly, reaching out to pat his shoulder before jerkily pulling her hand away, “The Tylenol will kick in soon.”

“You’re doing good,” he said, tilting his heavy head to her binders, “Keep looking.”

“I…don’t really know what I’m supposed to be looking for,” Dr. Kimura admitted sheepishly. 

“Well, Dr. Nichols is a former military scientist. He's most likely secretive and paranoid,” Spencer explained slowly, pausing every now and then to wince.

“What does that tell us?”

“That he would have protected the cure and probably would have hidden it from his partner,” Spencer said, fighting to keep his face neutral as he spoke, “So look for something innocuous, something you wouldn’t suspect.”

Kimura nodded hesitantly and began rifling through drawers.

Spencer heaved a harried sigh when his phone’s ringtone pierced the thick silence. He offered a weary greeting to whoever was on the line.

“Hey, pretty boy,” a sad voice said on the other line, “How’s it going in there?”

Spencer coughed, walking unsteadily to the window to see Derek waving at him. He clunked his head against the glass, wincing, “I’ve seen better days.”

“You’ve got me and Garcia here,” the man said.

“Hey, Reid,” Garcia piped in.

Reid broke into a coughing fit, a soft whine escaping his throat as the pain shot through him like a bullet. 

“Stick with me, bud,” Derek urged, “Listen, Prentiss and Rossi don’t think the unsub was a coworker, so we’re back to square one.”

“...Fuck,” Spencer rasped.

“Is there anything in there that can help us find him?” Derek asked, bouncing uneasily on the balls of his feet as he watched Spencer cradle his head, “Maybe something in his desk?”

“I…I don’t know,” Spencer whined, holding his throbbing head in his hands, “I’ve already been through everything.”

“C’mon, baby,” Derek encouraged, “I know you’re not thinking straight, but the Spencer I know wouldn’t stop looking.”

Spencer swallowed and looked around. His gaze landed on Dr. Nichols’s desk, where he zeroed in on a framed picture of the man in graduate apparel giving an enthusiastic speech at a graduation ceremony. He looked younger, happier, more put-together. The picture was partially obscured by the binders of syllabi Kimura had rifled through. 

“I see a framed picture of Nichols teaching,” he said slowly, eyes sweeping around to take in the UMD paraphernalia on and around the desk, “And Kimura found binders with syllabi going back to the seventies.”

“OK, so he kept a scrapbook of himself as a professor,” Derek said, “Tells us he values himself as an educator.”

An educator.

“Oh my god,” Spencer breathed, stumbling to the unsub’s desk, “I never made the connection before, but there’s an annotated thesis and bibliography here. Nichols wouldn’t have let just anyone in here, but he would probably welcome a student!”

“I can look up local PhD students!” Garcia cried, her frantic typing immediately filtering through the phone. 

“Good, look for students in the sciences, like microbiology and chemistry,” Derek ordered. 

“Thank you for finding those syllabi,” Spencer murmured to Kimura, who nodded with a soft smile. He flipped through the carefully organized notebooks on the unsub’s desk and scanned the blocky handwriting. His finger ached, sharp pain shooting through it with every page he turned.

Garcia typed for a few moments before sighing. “Nothing, my doves.”

“Guys, listen to this,” Spencer croaked, tracing a finger along the worn pages and reading aloud, “‘This country is woefully unprepared. Every household should have a two-month supply of ciprofloxacin. Hospitals are in need of bio-safety level four decon wings ’.”

“That’s…That’s nearly verbatim from Nichols’s speech with the committee,” Derek uttered in disbelief, “So the partner’s adopted Nichols’s views as his own?”

“The chapters are on setting up triage and mobile emergency rooms,” Spencer hummed, squinting to clear the fogginess from his head, “I don't think this paper was written by a science student. It's about city preparedness and response.”

“So, Garcia, check with students in the social studies – public policy, urban planning, stuff like that,” Derek demanded.

A frenzy of typing permeated through the phone.

“Hot-to-trot!” Garcia cried with excitement, “There's a Chad Brown, school of public policy at the University of Maryland. He matches a Chad Brown, a former employee at the bookstore.”

“Gotta be him,” Spencer said, coughing.

“Totes. He's been in the doctoral program on and off for five years,” Garcia sneered, “Nix on a steady job. Was slapped with a restraining order from his former girlfriend after he attacked her at the same park as the first attack, and he’s been arrested and released twice at protest rallies in DC. I'll tell Hotch.”

“Spencer, you are a beautiful, beautiful genius, you know that?” Morgan sighed incredulously, his eyes gleaming with awe.

“I do,” Spencer said with a soft, pained smile.

“Dr. Reid!” Kimura cried suddenly, causing him to jump and turn around.

The woman held out her gloved hand – a rescue inhaler labeled ‘L NICHOLS’ in hastily scrawled marker lay in her palm. 

“You said the cure would be hidden somewhere we wouldn’t suspect,” she said with grim determination, “And someone with asthma would guard their medicine because it’s literally their lifeline. Do you think he’d hide it here?”

Hope flickered weakly in Spencer’s chest, like the faintest breeze on a stale summer day. 

“You might wanna consider profiling, Kimura,” he chuckled raspily, shooting her a gentle grin, “That…that might just be it.”

“Tell Agent Morgan I’m sending the inhaler out now,” Kimura said, hurrying to the door, “My assistant should collect it and send it for testing.”

“Derek, did you hear that?” Spencer croaked, turning to watch Derek through the glass. The man turned and yelled at a young woman across the lawn. She came running over as Kimura entered the decontamination chamber. 

 “I sure did, baby,” Derek breathed in shaky relief, “We’re gonna get that tested right away. Now get the hell out of there.”

“Bye,” Spencer wheezed.

Chapter Text

Spencer usually felt a bone-deep sense of relief whenever they had a name for an unsub. For the most part, that meant his job was done – it wasn’t often when he was the first to be sent out to chase the killers down. Everyone knew his clumsy nature, gangly frame, and low stamina were liabilities.

But he couldn’t celebrate today. 

As soon as Derek and Garcia hung up, his world began to spin. He leaned against the cold concrete windowsill, taking shaky breaths laced with panic as he watched Derek chase down Kimura’s assistant. Working on the case was one of the only things keeping him sane in the face of death – now, as his body began to decay from the inside out, his mind was like a caged animal trapped in a burning building. 

With Derek out of sight, his facade began to crack. 

I’m going to die.

The taut muscles in his legs felt like rubber, the corners of his visions starting to blur into inky shadows. His heart hammered erratically in his chest, sensation fleeing his limbs as his ears began to ring. He stumbled backward and crashed into Nichols’s desk, the sound of falling books and knickknacks sounding miles and miles away. He held a steadying hand to his pounding head and breathed shakily. His lungs felt endlessly heavy, burning like molten lead with every gasp, his excruciating headache feeling like an ice pick driving into his skull.

“Here, sit down,” Kimura ordered sharply, guiding him to a chair with urgent gestures, never once grazing his skin, “Are you sure I can’t give you anything stronger?”

God, anything to get rid of this horrible fucking pain-

“No opiates,” Spencer snarled hoarsely, stumbling into the chair and angling himself towards the blustery air conditioning as a wave of feverish heat seared through him. He had had fevers before, but nothing that made his muscles feel like damp cardboard and his joints feel like they were coated in gangrenous rust. 

“Once my assistant is ready, I’ll take you outside,” Kimura said, hurrying to her equipment case and shoving everything back inside, “We’ll have to hose you down to decontaminate you before taking you to the hospital, OK?”

Spencer merely groaned. Every movement hurt.

He sat still, his jaw slack, while Kimura radioed to her assistant, her voice hazy in his ears. He licked his lips, his tongue feeling thick and dry in his parched mouth. He shuddered violently when a sudden chill wracked his body, sweat pouring down his neck and soaking his hair. His clothes stuck to his body like glue, peeling away from the slick perspiration on his skin as he shakily moved to pull off his vest.

He cried out in pain as he moved. His binder gripped him like a vice, slick with sweat and relentless in its grip. 

“Keep your layers on,” Kimura murmured gently around the phone, occupying his hands with a water bottle and more Tylenol, “You need to stay warm.”

“‘M hot,” Spencer shuddered through chattering teeth.

“I know. We’ll be at the hospital soon,” she said, glancing over her shoulder and worrying her lip as she watched the hazmat team carrying gallons of disinfectant and erecting a privacy tent within the decontamination area.

“Is Derek still there?” Spencer asked hoarsely, spluttering around the pills.

Kimura peered out the window and nodded, smiling softly. “He is. That’s one dedicated friend you have.”

Spencer snorted. Friend indeed .

He watched with a glazed expression as Kimura’s assistant signaled to them through the window. He felt panic rise in his chest when he couldn’t see Derek.

“Where’s Derek?” he slurred, stumbling to his feet and wincing aloud at the throbbing pains piercing his aching joints. 

“He’s there somewhere, don’t worry,” Kimura soothed, escorting him slowly to the door, “He didn’t go anywhere.”

“Better not have,” Spencer grumbled, far too drained to react to the steadying hand Kimura seemed to instinctively place on his back as he finally hobbled out of that horribly chilly lab. He could feel the change in temperature as he shakily crossed the threshold, the outdoor’s thick humidity coating him like mud.

“Spencer!”

His head felt like it was made of concrete as he slowly looked up. A smile of relief bloomed across his face when Derek hurried up to them, the man’s form blurred through the tent’s wrinkled plastic windows.

“Agent Morgan, please keep your distance,” Kimura snapped firmly, her expression fierce.

Derek heaved a frustrated sigh and stood a few feet back, his shoes starting to tap a swift rhythm on the driveway. “You doing alright?”

No.

Spencer coughed, wiping his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. “...I’ve been better.”

“They’re checking out Brown’s house now,” Derek said, growling in frustration when his phone rang. He turned, speaking urgently. 

Spencer trudged to the small tent at the doctor’s insistence. There, Kimura’s assistant – a young woman in a hazmat suit – was waiting with a hose, decontamination soap, and sponges. She nodded and smiled briefly at him in greeting, her expression pained as she took in his pale, feverish state. 

“Are you able to stand upright?” Kimura asked, ushering him to the center of the chamber, “We can get you a chair.”

God, I want to sit down.

“I’m fine,” Spencer replied, rubbing his arms as another chill gripped him.

“I’m sorry to do this, Dr. Reid,” Kimura said, moving around the tent and drawing the privacy curtains closed, “But we’ll need you to remove your clothes so we can scrub you down.”

Spencer froze, hugging himself tightly and drawing his knees together. “Do I need to get…y’know?”

The woman nodded grimly.

He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat, gaze dropping to the ground. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said gently as she picked up a hose, “Trust me, we see all kinds of bodies in various states of undress all the time.”

Spencer swallowed, the vicelike grip of his binder, the sweaty bulge of his packer, and the nauseating sensation of the tampon feeling magnified the closer Kimura came. “It’s not that I’m worried about…I…”

His lips wobbled. No one else could know. He didn’t want anyone else to know. Coming out was supposed to be his choice, a sacred disclosure to the most trustworthy people in his life. How could he lay himself bare in front of someone he barely knew when he could scarcely reveal himself to someone he loved?

“I know you don’t like being touched, but we’ll be as discreet and as quick as we can,” Kimura said, nodding to her assistant, “And we’ll tell you exactly what we’re doing before we do it, OK?”

Reid nodded. Why struggle with words when the truth would bare itself soon enough?

“Yeah, they’re hosing him off now. Keep me posted,” he heard Derek say, followed by his phone beeping, “Spencer?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Spencer rasped, turning to give Kimura a pleading look, “Please, let me see him one more time.”

Kimura nodded knowingly and pulled open the curtain, Derek shooting him a soft smile the second he came into view. “You’re gonna be OK, bud.”

“Go help Hotch,” Spencer croaked, jerking his head to the car.

Derek shook his head and planted his feet firmly on the concrete, “He’s got enough people helping him. I’m staying right here.”

Jesus, why do you always have to be so stubborn?

“I’m about to get naked, so they can scrub me down,” Spencer puffed, attempting to use humor to disguise his tension, “So unless that’s something you wanna see…?”

Derek resolutely folded his arms. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Spencer froze, a bright red blush blending in with the feverish flush on his burning face as he stared Derek dead in the eye. Kimura cleared her throat. 

Derek’s face quickly became panicked, realization setting in like a bomb. “No! I mean, y’know, I’m not gonna…”

He sighed, rubbing his neck and respectfully averting his gaze, “...I’m just gonna wait out here.”

He folded his arms and shifted his weight from foot to foot, his shoe tapping a jerky rhythm on the concrete. Spencer’s chest quaked as he tried to hold back exhausted growls of frustration, just wishing Derek would listen to him just this once. He couldn’t risk revealing himself to the man. Not now. Not ever. 

“Derek, please just go with Hotch,” he begged, hugging his arms to his chest. 

“I am not leaving your side until I know you’re safe, so quit trying to argue with me.”

“He needs you more than I do,” Spencer argued anyway, “You need to get the unsub.”

“I don’t give a damn about the unsub!” Derek snarled, looking up with a ferocious look on his face, “All I care about is you! ”

Spencer’s heart and mind were far too full to fully process and react to Derek’s words. All he could focus on was fighting back the tears those words brought to his eyes.

“Please,” he whispered. 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Derek said, turning his back and folding his arms, “This is exactly where I need to be and you can’t convince me otherwise.”

Kimura looked at Spencer pointedly. He sighed in defeat and nodded wearily.

“We’ll let you know when he’s clear, Agent Morgan,” she said, drawing the final curtain until all Spencer could see was Derek’s shadowy outline, his foot tapping ceaselessly on the concrete.

“Thanks, doc,” the man called, “Take good care of him, please.”

“OK,” she said, turning to Spencer, “Are you able to remove your clothes?”

Spencer’s stomach dropped, but he nodded, waiting until Kimura and her assistant looked away before he moved. Wordlessly, he pulled off his vest and unbuttoned his shirt. He thought back to this morning when he hastily pulled on his clothes while Derek was trying to wheedle his way inside with that stupid flirty voice of his. He hadn’t imagined the man would be there when he took them off either, well, not in this capacity. He couldn't bring himself to pull off his binder or remove his underwear, praying he could convince the doctor to let him keep them on. He neatly folded the clothes on the ground beside him. 

“OK,” he said shakily, “I’m ready.”

Dr. Kimura turned with a reassuring smile already plastered on her face. But it quickly faded when she took in his half-clothed appearance. Reid felt nausea boil like rotten stew in his gut when a look of shock and realization flitted across her face. 

“Don’t say anything,” Spencer snarled in a harsh whisper, pointedly jerking his head towards Derek’s shadow outside, “Please just make this quick.”

“Dr. Reid…” she said heavily, “It all has to go.” 

No. Please, no.

“Please,” he whispered, hugging his binder and bringing his legs together, “Please, I can’t.”

“I’m truly, truly sorry,” she said, her expression pained, “It all has to come off.”

“But the spores probably only got on my outer garments, right?” he begged, scratching up and down his arms to try and calm the raging dysphoria storming under his skin, “Can’t I keep my…my other stuff on?”

She shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but it’s protocol. We can’t risk a single spore getting through.”

He looked up at the roof of the tent, trying to hold back hot tears. “Please, please don’t.”

“It’s OK,” she said soothingly, “Like I said, we see all kinds of people.”

“Can’t I just do it myself?” he pleaded.

Kimura shook her head. “I’m sorry. We’re specially trained, and you can’t reach every spot on your own. Protocol.”

Fucking protocol.

He sniffed and wiped at his nose before searching for her gentle gaze. “Don’t…please don’t tell anyone?”

She nodded firmly, determination lining her brows as she softly replied. “You’re safe with us. I promise.”

He squeezed his arms closer to his waist, gnawing his lip raw. Poisonous, dysphoric thoughts raged in his mind, and each hair on his body suddenly felt far too sensitive. They felt like exposed nerves, prickling and expecting pain. Everything was getting to be too much – the sounds of car engines, people talking into radios, the crinkling of Kimura’s suit as she moved, the tapping of Derek’s shoe-

Derek. 

He glanced at the shadowy figure outside the tent, and suddenly his dysphoria was drowned out by a much louder, much more demanding train of thought: no thoughts or fears were ever going to keep him away from that man, no matter how strong they were. Not now. Not ever.

And so, with his jaw set, he tugged and pulled at the binder. The two women turned to give him privacy. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the tight garment off, his body still clinging to the instinct to hide. 

“I…I can’t get it off,” he sighed, his fever-ridden muscles weak and shaky at the exertion.

“We’ll have to cut it, OK?” Kimura said, nodding to her assistant, who handed her a set of shears.

Spencer let out a stifled sob when he felt the scissors slice through the fabric, the back of the blade pressing into his spine like a threat. His chest ached with bitter relief as the suffocating pressure he found so soothing went away. He immediately clapped his arms around himself, hiccuping as he tried to steady his ragged breathing. 

“Everything alright in there?” Derek asked, clearly concerned. 

“We’re fine, Agent,” Kimura called, “Please keep your distance.”

Spencer shook. This was the first time he had ever exposed his chest to someone outside of doctor’s appointments. But he supposed this was also a crude type of doctor’s appointment.

“The bottom garments too, Dr. Reid,” Kimura reminded him gently as she respectfully folded the scraps of the binder on the concrete. 

Spencer slipped off his underwear, shaking at the sight of period overflow on the fabric. Hastily, he balled the garment up and hid the packer beneath it. He gave a small noise of affirmation, shrinking in on himself when the two women turned.

“Send these out for incineration once you’ve hosed them,” Dr. Kimura murmured to her assistant, beckoning to the pile of clothes.

“God, please,” he cried, hiding hands over his modesty and nodding frantically to the packer, “That’s my only one. I need it.”

“Dr. Reid, I will happily reimburse you myself,” Kimura said, urgency starting to leak into her tone, “But we need to incinerate everything. OK?”

He nodded, throat so tight he felt like it would explode. He stood stark still in the center of that stuffy tent, feeling like a statue on display in front of thousands of gawking eyes. Kimura gently discussed her actions before she turned the hose on, the clinical scent of disinfectant exacerbating his raging headache. The tepid water felt freezing on his hot, feverish skin. He shivered like a wet dog, his hair clinging to his neck. 

He nodded languidly when the two began to scrub him with decontamination soap, each telling him their moves before they did them. His head began to spin violently, his limbs shaking with sheer weakness as chills wracked his body. His heart rushed in his ears, each joint and muscle screaming in pain as his fever grew. His skinny body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, his knees starting to buckle. Suddenly, he was glad for Kimura’s steadying hand on his back as he swayed unsteadily, glad he wasn’t the one doing the vigorous scrubbing. He was exhausted. So fucking exhuatsed.

But each touch felt like sandpaper on his raw skin, and he couldn’t help but jerk mildly at each movement. He refused to move his hands away from himself, eyes resolutely on the ground. 

“Dr. Reid, I know this is hard, but we need to get everywhere,” Kimura said, respectfully avoiding his gaze, “We’ll keep telling you what we’re doing before we do it, OK? You’re safe.”

Spencer’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Outside, Derek continued to tap his foot on the concrete, unable to sit still through his worry.

“Kimura, don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope we never see each other again after this,” he hissed bitterly as he let his arms fall to his side. 

He looked away, screwing his eyes shut and nodding as Kimura continued to scrub. A stranger was seeing him. All of him. Nausea swelled in his gut, shame riding high in his cheeks. He winced as his aching muscles groaned in pain under the horrible touch, wanting nothing more than to crumble into dust. He couldn’t hold back the overstimulated sob that tumbled from his throat.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.”

“It hurts,” he whimpered, “Everything hurts.”

“I know,” she said, holding him upright as his weak, aching knees struggled to hold his weight, “We’re almost done.”

Spencer grimaced when the assistant began to scrub his thighs. He gritted out a low snarl of annoyance and pain. The harsh sensations were becoming too much – the ferocious scrubbing, his wet hair clinging to his skin, the sheer shame, his tender chest-

He choked when the assistant’s fingers accidentally snagged on the tampon string, the poorly placed device almost falling out with her vigorous scrubbing. Blinding pain and searing embarrassment shot through him, his vision going white as he let out a strangled hiss and doubled over. He finally tore the device away, flinging it to the pile of clothes and clutching his abdomen as he cramped and cramped.

Everyone froze, and the tent fell into a mortified silence. Derek’s tapping pierced the quiet like gunfire. 

“I am so, so sorry,” the assistant gasped loudly, her nasally voice ricocheting throughout the tent like an explosion, “I didn’t realize you had a tampon in Dr. Reid! Oh my god-”

Spencer froze, horrified eyes fixing on Derek’s shadow as he held his breath and prayed the man hadn’t heard the conversation.

But Derek’s tapping had suddenly stopped, his silence cutting Spencer to the bone. 

“Madison!” Kimura reprimanded sharply, jerking her head to Derek’s silhouette with rage scrawled across her tight features. 

“Oh god, I-I mean I-”

Spencer buried his face in his hands, fingers clawing into his hair so tightly his scalp stung. He knew. God, Derek knew. 

“It’s OK,” Kimura whispered, “You’ll be OK.”

Spencer shook his head wordlessly, tears streaming down his face as the two finished up.

“OK, you’re all done. You did really well!” Kimura finally said, as if her encouragement could quell the raging storm slamming around his chest. She handed him a towel and a gown, “Can you dry off on your own, or do you need help?”

Spencer nodded and dried himself off as quickly as his aching and shaking body allowed. He donned the thin garment through his blurry vision. His chest was so visible in it. Anyone with half a brain would know they were breasts. 

“Preparing for transport now,” Kimura said into her walkie-talkie, looking at Spencer, “Are you ready?”

He nodded dumbly, voice paralyzed in his constricted throat.

“I can try to send him away if you want,” Kimura murmured, inclining her head to Derek’s restless shadow. 

“What’s the point? He has ears,” Spencer muttered bitterly, “Can I at least get some bandages? Tape?”

Kimura furrowed her brows. “For what purpose?”

Spencer gestured sharply to his chest, anger starting to boil in his gut.

She shook her head, mouth thin. “I’m sorry, that would be too unsafe. Plus, I need to hook you up to the monitors.”

Spencer heaved a frustrated sigh, hugging himself tightly as she lowered the curtain. He stumbled past as quickly as he could, not even sparing Derek a glance. 

“Spencer!” Morgan cried out, his footsteps sharp as he jogged to catch up, "Are you OK?"

“Derek, I am begging you,” Spencer hissed through harshly gritted teeth as he stood outside the ambulance with his back turned to the man, “Go to Hotch.”

“I already told you, I am seeing you to the damn hospital whether you like it or not,” Derek snapped, catching up and resting his hand on the small of Spencer’s back like he always did whenever Spencer was within grabbing distance, like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t just found Spencer out, like he wasn’t going to sneer and walk away.

And that made something snap deep in Spencer’s mind. 

“Damnit, Derek !” Spencer shouted, viciously slapping the hand away and whipping around with his hands clawing into his hair, “I don’t want you here!”

He froze, terror shooting through his blood when Derek’s taken-aback eyes darted down, cold shock scrawling across his features when he saw the outline of Spencer’s unbound chest beneath the thin robe. They locked eyes, shock shooting through the crashing silence like lightning.

Spencer immediately clapped his arms around his chest and groaned, breaking into a horrible coughing fit and bracing an arm against the ambulance as he stumbled. 

“Jesus, Spencer, you’re bleeding, ” Derek gasped, hands reaching to steady him around his waist, horrified eyes fixed on the trickle of blood running down Spencer’s calf.

Spencer groaned, clamping his legs together as he tried to regulate his breathing and gather his hazy thoughts. “Yeah, I…I-”

Suddenly, his eyes swam, and fuzzy shadows collected in the corners of his eyes as his vision tunneled. Sensation fled his limbs like animals fleeing a wildfire. He wobbled, stumbling forward before Derek caught him, the man’s powerful hands gripping him like a life buoy.

And God, it felt so right.

“Doc!” Derek called in a panic, hauling Spencer upright and yanking him close. 

Spencer furrowed his brows blearily as he dropped his head against Derek’s chest. He could hear the man’s frantically pounding heart, and could finally feel his strong arms around him. He wasn’t walking away? Why wasn’t he walking away?

Kimura flung the bay doors open and beckoned urgently before clambering up the ambulance. “Get him up here, now!”

Spencer uttered a hoarse cry of shock as Derek immediately scooped him up from his knees, effortlessly carrying him bridal style, like Spencer weighed no more than a feather. Spencer instinctively wrapped his arms around him, digging greedy fingers into the man’s shoulders, finally breathing in that comforting scent as he buried his face into the man’s neck.

He didn’t stem the tears that burned his red eyes, letting them flow as he clung to Derek with whatever strength his ailing body had left. Through his feverish haze, he could feel Derek squeezing him back, his grip tight, as if he was worried letting go would mean Spencer would wither away. 

“You’re OK, baby, you’re OK,” Derek croaked soothingly, ducking his head as he climbed inside the ambulance, “I got you. I’m gonna have to put you down now, OK?”

Spencer uttered a soft gasp of pain as Derek deposited him on the stretcher as gently as he could.

“Derek-” Spencer sobbed, “I’m so sorry, god, I’m so sorry- ”

Derek shushed him, reaching over and slamming the ambulance bay doors as the engine roared to life. “What’re you apologizing for, sweetheart?”

“F-For yelling, for lying,” Spencer sniffed, sobbing through coughs and trying to sit up. “I don’t actually want you to go, and I’ve been lying about how I’m transgender-”

“Hey, don't worry about that. I’m not going anywhere,” Derek chuckled, gently pushing him back on the stretcher, “I already told you that three hundred times, idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer gasped raggedly, squirming as Kimura quickly fastened the stretcher’s seatbelt across his slender waist. He jumped when she sharply rapped on the grate separating the bay from the cab. The driver immediately sounded the sirens, and Spencer cried aloud as the sound sliced through him. 

“Quit apologizing, man,” Derek ordered over the noise, bracing himself against the bench as the ambulance lurched forward, “Just try to relax, alright?”

Spencer snarled and snatched his hand away violently when Kimura tried to clip a pulse oximeter to his finger. “Please don’t touch me!”

“Baby, she’s trying to help you. Let her do her thing,” Derek soothed, reaching up to brush away the tangled, sweaty locks that were clouding Spencer’s vision, the man’s panicked breath puffing against his wrist.

Kimura’s eyes flew open in alarm. “Agent Morgan, don’t, he doesn’t like-!”

The woman watched incredulously as Derek gently brushed the hair out of Reid’s eyes. The man’s frantic struggle lessened slightly as the agent reached for his non-bandaged hand and squeezed it reassuringly. 

“Don’t worry, doc,” Derek said calmly, never dropping Spencer’s gaze, “I don’t count.”

Spencer squeezed the agent’s hand with a bone-crushing grip, his knuckles turning white. “Derek, I’m…I’m scared.” 

“I know,” Derek soothed, “But you gotta let Kimura help you, OK?”

Spencer bit his lip and nodded, whispering frantic apologies under his breath as he nodded to Kimura. 

“Dr. Reid, I’d like to give you a little sedative, OK?” Kimura asked, “You’re a little agitated.”

“Nothing addictive,” Spencer snarled sharply.

Kimura nodded, slathering a sharp-smelling orange liquid onto the back of Spencer’s free hand, a needle poised over his prominent veins. “Of course. Light pinch.”

“You just squeeze my hand if you’re scared,” Derek soothed.

Spencer’s grip increased like a vice when Kimura established the IV and pushed the sedative, those bony fingers hiding intense strength. But Derek wouldn’t dare show any pain, even though he was pretty sure Spencer was about to dislocate his fingers when Kimura snapped an oxygen mask on his face, his frantic breath fogging the plastic.

“Alright, how are you feeling now, Dr. Reid?” Kimura asked, “Any new symptoms I should know about?”

Spencer swallowed thickly, his thoughts becoming hazy as he felt the drugs start to kick in. Fire burned in his chest, his throat feeling like he had swallowed fiberglass. He glanced at Derek, who was struggling to keep the panic out of his eyes. 

“The same,” Spencer offered instead, “Throat, headache, joints.”

Kimura hummed, adjusting his IV and hanging a large bag of clear liquid from it. Spencer swallowed, his heart suddenly slamming against his sternum when he felt Derek squeeze his hand reassuringly. The man’s firm grip felt like a soothing hug, like his only lifeline in a storm. He never, ever wanted to let go.

Tell him.

He swallowed. “Derek, I need to tell you something.”

Derek blinked and tilted his head expectantly. “Anything.”

“God, I should’ve told you sooner,” Spencer choked bitterly, “I think I’m in…I wink by sin…sink-”

The sheer horror that flashed in Derek’s eyes would haunt Spencer for however much longer he had left. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to speak. 

“Oh, god,” he tried to say, his incomprehensibly garbled words sliding thickly past his slurred lips, his hand clawing up Derek’s arm and gripping the man’s shirt, “Derek, I-”

“It’s OK,” Kimura said, gently pushing him back down, “Just breathe.”

“Fuck!” Spencer sobbed, horrified as he realized his vocalizations didn’t even remotely match his mental dialogue, “ Derek, I love you, I love you so much, but now that the aphasia has set in I’ll never get to tell you-”

“Hey, I’m right here, baby, you’re gonna be fine,” Derek rasped, cupping his face, “Save your breath, OK?”

“I’m not fine and you know it!” Spencer sobbed, his chest getting tighter, tighter, and tighter, his head throbbing, his heart slamming in his chest so hard he could hear it roaring in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. He needed air. He choked, wheezing and gasping, his vision going black and white.

Not even the grounding feel of Derek’s hands on his face or the sound of his low, panicked voice could stop him from being dragged away into a cold, empty darkness.

Chapter Text

Derek’s relationship with faith had always been rocky. 

He had relied on his faith almost his entire life. It gave him a foundation – it was something he could almost always find comfort in. It had held his family together like glue when he was a boy, and he clung to it with childish fervor. But its all-consuming grip had cracked and chipped the night his father was shot. It fractured and frayed when he watched his father’s blood paint the walls of that trauma bay in Chicago. Its hollow facade finally shattered when he was a teen after his nightmarish ordeal with Carl Buford. He had screamed his prayers in the fluorescent ward in the ICU that fateful night, and he had sobbed his prayers to the stars night after night after Buford’s assaults. But night after night, a stone-faced God never answered. 

It had been a potent placebo, one that could direct his thoughts of dread toward a positive future even when the world around him could never give him one. He was living in a shrouded world filled with shadows and sins no one, let alone a thirteen-year-old boy, was ever supposed to deal with. How many times had he been told that God never gave his faithful more than they could handle? He had trusted in that saying until God’s trials had broken him. As an adult with destroyed faith, he had nothing but his own wounded soul and his makeshift family in Quantico to support him.

So as he sat helpless in that ambulance, watching Kimura as she desperately tried to resuscitate his Spencer, he offered a type of prayer he hadn’t given in years – a desperate one. 

The image of Spencer’s bloodshot eyes rolling into the back of his head, his mouth hung agape as he fought to take rattling gasps of air would scar his mind for years to come. The sticky, fleshy sound of Kimura fighting to get a breathing tube down the fragile man’s throat as the ambulance roared down the streets of DC made bile rise in Derek’s stomach, Spencer’s neck twitching in a horrifically inhuman way as the doctor finally got purchase, squeezing a rubber bag on the end of the tube to help him breathe. 

Spencer’s grip on his hand went limp when he faded into unconsciousness, his chest rising and falling mechanically as Kimura fought against the anthrax leeching into his lungs. But Derek squeezed his spindly hand anyway, terrified the man would slip away if he ever let him go. His fingers were so thin, delicate, and cold. 

Please, God, he thought, fighting to keep unwonted tears out of his eyes, Help him.

There was something so unbearably human about crying out to the universe in hopes of twisting the strings of fate. Could the unfeeling expanse of time feel empathy? Could the objective forces orchestrating the course of human history feel compelled to listen to a single man’s prayers of desperation, feel compelled to spare his lover’s life?

His mind fell into a desolate fog – he drifted mechanically, his legs carrying him where he needed to go when the ambulance peeled into the emergency bay at Walter Reed. Wordlessly, he helped Kimura pull the stretcher out of the ambulance. Spencer looked so small and fragile, those beautiful brown eyes hidden by pale eyelids spiderwebbed with thin veins and sable eyelashes crusted with dried tears. Kimura’s commanding voice sounded like the faintest echo in his ears as she shouted orders to the emergency team that met them at the door. 

Was there an all-powerful god in the sky, capable of hearing one single prayer just like the billions of others it had heard for millennia? Could it gather a single drop of sympathy and commit a single, long-overdue act of mercy?

“I’ve got this from here.”

Derek blinked, staring blankly when one of the nurses gently nudged him as they hurried down a brightly lit hospital hallway. He hadn’t even realized he was gripping the corner of the stretcher with one hand, the other still clasping Spencer’s hand as he marched ever forward as if possessed. 

“Did you hear me, buddy?” the nurse repeated, nudging Derek’s arm more firmly, a slight tension forming under his eyes. 

“I need him,” Derek replied flatly, looking resolutely forward.

“I’m sorry, sir, but loved ones need to wait in the waiting room,” the nurse said softly, his kindly eyes glinting remorsefully as he tried to prise Derek’s hands off the stretcher. His foreign, gloved touch sent clawing tendrils of disgust through Derek’s arm. He slapped it away, curling his lip and leveling the man with his most baleful stare, his brain finally catching up to his reality. 

It was going to take more than a scrawny little nurse to separate him from his Spencer – a hell of a lot more. 

“You’re not allowed in the ICU at this time, sir,” the nurse insisted patiently, tilting his head to the upcoming doors. Derek fought the chill shooting up his spine when he recognized the door to the ICU and recalled the miasma of death he had witnessed there before. He simply leaned his shoulder into the door, slamming it open as he wheeled Spencer toward his fate down that horrifically familiar hallway.

“Sir-!”

“I ain’t leavin’ him, man,” Derek snarled harshly, “So back. Off.”

“Drop it, Jones,” Kimura growled, glowering at the nurse while rhythmically squeezing Spencer’s ventilation bag, “This patient needs an FBI escort at all times.”

Derek and Kimura exchanged glances. Derek quirked his eyebrows quizzically, inquiringly. He studied her face, looking for any sign of why she would lie about Spencer needing an FBI escort. The doctor gave him a small, short-lived smile and a quick, covert wink. 

“Thank you,” he murmured to her as they rounded the corner into one of the open wards. 

All she offered was a curt nod before hurrying to work. A team of ICU nurses surged in, listening intently and working as a well-oiled machine as Kimura listed off vitals in jargony language Derek couldn’t understand. He stumbled to the corner of the room, watching with a glassy-eyed stare as they hooked Spencer up to so many horrible machines with tubes and wires sticking out of his arms, chest, and mouth. They pierced his veins with needles, shoved tubes down his throat, and attached a tangle of wires and nodules to his chest. The machines screeched, alarms blaring like a klaxon siren as the ventilator emptied and inflated Spencer’s lungs like a hand artificially plucking the strings of fate.

That hellish cacophony of beeping, alarms, and shouts filled Derek’s mind like static, the tips of his fingers and nose growing numb and crackling and popping like an old television set as his blank eyes fought to keep Spencer in focus. He could barely feel himself breathe, his chest tightening and tightening the more he looked and the more those inflamed memories of his father began to resurface-

“Agent Morgan,” Kimura murmured, appearing at his side so suddenly he jumped, “I think it’s best you wait outside.”

He blinked heavily, rubbing his numb fingertips together and fumbling with his words. “I…I need to be with him.”

Kimura followed his hollow gaze, a pained grimace creasing her features as she watched him anxiously rub his hands together and stare unblinkingly as the resuscitation team worked. She patted his arm. “I know. But we need room to help him.” 

“I can’t leave him,” Derek murmured, “I promised.”

“You won’t be leaving,” Kimura replied softly, gently guiding him to the door, “You’ll just be waiting outside until we stabilize him.”

“But I-”

“Do you have someone you can call?” she interrupted, shooting him a placating, encouraging smile as she nudged him into the hallway, “Maybe your team?” 

The team. God, he hadn’t thought about them once ever since they’d gotten in the ambulance. Nothing had mattered to him – the case, the team, national security, it meant fuck all when Spencer was in danger. He nodded to her mutely.

“Why don’t you give them a call?” she suggested, gesturing to the small waiting room he’d stayed in earlier, “I’ll call for you as soon as I have any news.”

Derek looked over his shoulder, biting his lip as the nurses and specialists poked and prodded at Spencer’s fragile frame. Kimura patted his arm sympathetically and turned back inside.

“Kimura, wait,” he called, fear leeching into his tone like poison.

She paused, turning to face him expectantly.

He swallowed sharply, fighting to keep his voice level. “...Is he gonna make it?”

The doctor sighed, gnawing her lip and gazing over Spencer’s pale, willowly form. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

Those draconian alarms filled the gutting silence Kimura left behind as she returned to the ward, yanking the curtain closed behind her.

Derek hated those noncommittal answers all doctors gave. He knew they were trained to say it – FBI agents had to maintain similar objectivity regarding cases. Right now, he needed assurance, concrete evidence that Spencer wasn’t going to die, concrete proof that he would wake up and they could leave this horrible nightmare behind them in favor of something bold, something new.

Please, please, please.

He found himself in the small lounge he and Spencer had rested in only hours before. The corner of Spencer’s chocolate bar wrapper was still on the floor, and Derek’s empty cup was still precariously perched atop the overflowing wastepaper basket by the uncomfortable sofa Spencer had comforted him on.

An explosive snarl burst from his chest as he kicked the sofa, sending it skidding a few feet away. His chest heaved as he breathed, his breaths coming out as tight growls as angry tears bit at his eyes. He paced back and forth like a cornered tiger, eyes skittering around. That cramped room felt like a snapshot in time, like a sacred artifact left untouched by a single human soul for millennia. 

You hate hospitals, huh?

Derek froze in his pacing and gritted his teeth as he recalled Spencer’s quiet voice, his calm, soothing touch. His shoulder tingled with the ghost of the man’s touch, his heart aching in his chest. As he stared at the dislodged sofa, harsh anger and bitter sadness swelled in his throat. How could he ever come back to a hospital when all they ever did was take his loved ones away?

He needed comfort. He needed someone to tell him everything would be OK.

He just wanted his Spencer back. 

Instead, he lowered himself onto the sofa where Spencer had sat, drawing his legs to his chest and resting his head on his knees. His arms hugged his legs tightly as he fought to keep his composure through deep, ragged breaths.

You should have been right there with him. 

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Why did you let him go ahead? You should have been the lead.

He clenched his jaw.

You should be the one in that ward.

He buried his face in his knees. 

He’s going to die and it’s all your-

He jumped when his ringing phone broke the deathly silence, his numb hands wrenching horribly as his shattered nerves recoiled at the harsh noise. His sweaty palms fumbled with the device as he answered with a hasty croak.

“Morgan!” came Garcia’s panicked shout, “I’ve been calling you and Reid for ages! Where the hell were you?”

“Sorry,” he responded mutely, scrubbing his face with a shaking hand, “We’re at the hospital.”

“What happened?!” she demanded, her tone biting, “Is he OK?”

He swallowed thickly, hissing as he angrily wiped away traitorous tears that were threatening to spill over, his vision blurred. 

“Derek?”

“He…he stopped breathing in the ambulance, Pen,” he responded tightly, his voice cracking, “They brought him back, but...I-I don’t know if he’s gonna make it. Kimura couldn’t give me a straight answer.”

He barely registered Garcia’s horrified swear. Every sound was faint, entering his ears as if through a warped tunnel. Blood roared in his skull, and the powerful scents of antiseptics and rubber gloves singed his nostrils as he desperately tried to just fucking breathe. 

“I-I’ll call the rest of the team,” he heard Garcia faintly croak, “I’ll call everyone.”

“Don’t,” he replied robotically, tapping his foot anxiously, “They need to focus on finding the unsub. They can’t be distracted.”

“Reid dying isn’t a distraction, Derek!” Garcia snarled viciously. 

He winced. He rarely heard Garcia this upset. He chewed at his lips so hard he tasted blood on his tongue.

“I know, babygirl,” he replied placatingly, “But they need to be as levelheaded as they can right now. You know that.”

The analyst heaved an aggravated sigh that mingled with the sound of objects being tossed around her desk. “Well, I’m coming to see him then.”

His chest shuddered as he held back the tense ball of emotion swelling in his gut. She couldn’t see him like this. “Garcia, you need to be in your little lair to help the team if they need you.”

“Fuck that!” she cried, the distinctive sound of her squeaking chair grating against his ears, “I’m gonna get Kevin to cover me and I’m coming over right now! There’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

“Sweetheart, Kevin’s good, but you know you’re the best in the business,” Derek wheedled, “There’s nothing you can do to help him right now except catch the unsub.”

“I…”

“I know it’s hard,” Derek murmured, “But the team needs that big ol’ brain of yours to make sure they get home safe tonight, OK?”

His heart ached when he heard her blustery sigh after a few tense moments of deliberation. “...I hate when you feed my ego to get what you want, you know that?”

He chuckled dryly. “It works, don’t it?”

She grunted noncommittally as he sank back into the sofa, rubbing his sore eyes and uttering a soft groan. A selfish part of him wished Garcia was here, despite himself. He looked over his shoulder through the glass window towards Spencer’s room, biting back at the hard lump forming in his throat. 

“...Do you want me to stay on the line?” Garcia asked quietly, “Keep you company?”

He swallowed, fighting back the bittersweet pang in his chest as she read his mind just as well as she always did. “...Yes, please.”

The pair simply breathed through that dazed silence, grappling with their thoughts and acclimating to the reality of their situation. Each thought about how mere hours before they had interacted with a perfectly healthy Spencer just like they usually would. Derek ruminated on bittersweet thoughts about how adorably flustered the nerd was when he had first walked through his threshold that morning, while Garcia thought fondly of her gossipy conversation with the man that afternoon, salty tears threatening to smear her mascara as she recalled the last phone conversation she had with her dear friend. 

“Is he OK for now?” she finally asked, unable to tolerate the isolation of her thoughts for much longer.

“I dunno,” Derek responded dully, hugging his arms to his chest with his eyes to the floor, “Kimura said I can’t see him yet. He’s too unstable. But no news is good news, I guess.”

Garcia hummed sadly. “What about the inhaler? Did they find the cure in it?”

Derek shrugged dejectedly. “She didn’t say.”

Garcia swallowed sharply, sniffing audibly over the phone. “You said he stopped breathing on the way over?”

Derek struggled to swallow past the agonizing tightness in his throat, offering merely an affirmative grunt. The squelching sound of the breathing tube going down Spencer’s throat echoed in his mind like a horrifying record stuck eternally on a loop. He dug his nails into his thigh as the image of Spencer’s terrified face and the sound of his panicked, garbled words played over and over, Derek’s breathing becoming more ragged and his leg throbbing-

“You holding up OK?” Garcia asked in that gentle voice, the one she always used whenever she could tell something was eating him up inside.

“...No,” he murmured, his voice finally breaking.

You should have been right there with him. 

Why did you let him go ahead? You should have been the lead. 

You should be the one in that ward.

“He’s going to die and it’s all my fault,” he breathed in an agonized whisper.

Garcia gave an indignant noise. “That is not true and you know it.”

Suddenly, anger blazed like wildfire in his chest, and he slammed his fist into his knee. That venomous chorus of thoughts rattled about his mind, mingling viciously with memories of Spencer’s agonized gasps for air like a macabre slideshow.

“Do I know that, Penelope?” he snarled through gritted teeth, rage thrumming in his voice like the warning of a rattlesnake’s tail.

He winced when the tech fell silent, her constant typing ceasing at once. He could almost picture her slightly tilting her head, her sharp ears dissecting every tone and inflection in his voice. Her analytical silence sliced through him like a blade – she could be a hell of a profiler if she had the stomach for it.

“It’s not your fault that maniac dosed the place with anthrax,” she said reasonably, her tone much calmer, holding the objectivity any profiler would take in a heated situation. 

That only pissed him off more. He didn’t like getting a dose of his own medicine. 

“Well, it’s my fault I didn’t keep him with me,” Derek snarled, “I should have been the lead. I should be the one in that ward.”

Garcia went quiet, analytical. It grated against his nerves, his own harried breathing filling the thoughtful silence as he fought to just keep it together. He barely noticed he had risen from the sofa to pace back and forth, tracing a familiar route around that suffocating room, that knot of anxiety roaring in his chest.

“...No one should be in there,” Garcia replied softly.

“Yeah, well, Spencer is!” Derek hissed, storming around the room and rubbing a hand over his head, “And there’s not a damn thing we can do about it!”   

Garcia paused. “...You called him Spencer.”

Derek furrowed his brow, kicking at the candy wrapper on the ground. “So?”

“You never call him Spencer.”

“Does it matter?”

“Not really,” Garcia said in a sad voice, “But now I think I know why you’re so upset.”

“Oh, really?” Derek laughed incredulously, “Maybe it’s because my man’s in there dying from a disease we can’t cure?”

Garcia’s silence spurred him to continue, bitter words that had crowded against his teeth from the moment Spencer locked himself in that lab finally spilling out in a flood. “Maybe it’s because I had to watch him try to tell me what was probably his last words when his brain was already getting so fucked up by the anthrax he couldn’t even speak properly?”

Silence.

“Or maybe it’s because I had to watch him suffocate, or because I had to watch Kimura shove a fuckin’ tube down his throat just so he could stay alive?” He couldn’t stop the tears that began to pour down his cheeks, couldn’t control the waver in his voice. 

Silence.

He growled and angrily wiped his eyes. “Maybe it’s because I have to watch him die and I never got to tell him…tell him…”

It was his turn to be quiet. He swallowed, grappling with the deep, profound emptiness in his gut, the sheer exhaustion knitting his tense muscles into tight knots. Slowly, he turned to gaze at the ward, watching the shadows of the nurses behind the curtain with dead eyes. He listened as Garcia merely breathed, as if she were waiting for him to come around. 

“...I’m sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes and rubbing his jaw, “I didn’t mean to yell. I don’t…I don’t usually lose control like this.”

He leaned his arm against the cold, unfeeling glass, resting his head on his forearm in utter defeat.

“It’s OK,” Garcia replied softly, “This is…this is a lot to deal with.”

“He was so scared, Pen,” Derek murmured, “I’ve never seen him so scared before.”

He heard her give a dejected hum. He gazed wistfully at the ward, his expression hollow and his heart heavy. He wouldn’t be able to get today’s events out of his mind for a long time. He’d experienced plenty of harrowing events on the job – his encounter with Buford trying to frame him in Chicago, Hotch getting stabbed, and Penelope getting shot being only a few. But he could already tell that this was going to plague his nightmares every time he had the gall to try to sleep. The universe had a cruel tendency to try and take everyone he ever loved away from him, liked to torture them like a a heartless god. 

“...Do you think this is divine intervention?” he asked quietly.

She paused. “What d’ya mean?”

“I dunno,” he sighed, tapping his foot restlessly and picking at an imaginary spot on his pants, “Do you think this is God punishing me for not keeping him safe? For losing my faith?”

Garcia hummed to herself, her typing becoming distracted as she thought. 

“Actually,” she said hesitantly, “I think this might be a divine blessing.” 

“...How the hell is this a divine blessing?” Derek scoffed bitterly, surveying the suffering spread throughout that ghastly hospital wing with righteous anger burning in his eyes.

“Well, I believe everything happens for a reason,” Garcia responded plainly, “I dunno about the whole God thing, but maybe this is meant to be a wake-up call.”

Derek’s heart skipped a beat as her words sank in. 

A wake-up call.  

His thoughts circled back to Spencer, like they always seemed to do nowadays. How long had those stirring feelings in his gut been romantic? How often did his heart race whenever he saw the man? How long had he been provoking fate by hoping they would both survive on this hellish job long enough to finally do something about their feelings?

“Maybe once he gets better, you can finally tell him what you’ve been wanting to say,” Garcia murmured pointedly.

“If he gets better,” Derek mumbled without checking his words.

“No, stop,” she shakily hissed through gritted teeth, “Stop that. He is gonna get better and we’re all gonna keep solving cases together like normal, OK?”

Derek sighed dejectedly. “...I hope so.”

“Well, I know so,” Garcia snapped, sniffing slightly, “Have a little faith, huh?”

Derek watched the nurses move between the curtains, trying to drown out the malicious alarms and venomous thoughts fogging up his mind. He had never realized just how intertwined he and Spencer’s lives had become through the years. 

The man was one of the main reasons why Derek even had the energy to fight through the traumatic occupational hazards being on the BAU brought. He could always find comfort in his gentle presence – in fact, he often sought it out. He could hardly remember a time when the gangly man wasn’t on the team, wasn’t filling his day with enthusiastic babbling about work, his theses, or whatever topic caught his interest. He could barely remember a flight where they hadn’t sat next to each other, sharing earbuds as they listened to music and involuntarily seeking comfort by pressing into each other’s sides after particularly gruesome cases. Derek had come to rely on his presence to simply stay afloat.

He wasn’t prepared for a future without him. He could never go back to that emptiness.

“...Have you ever met someone and wondered how the hell you ever lived without them?” he asked softly, eyes transfixed on the ward.

Garcia’s soft chuckle tickled his ears. “Yeah. That’s how I felt when I started dating Kevin.”

“Did you ever tell him that?”

“Well, never outright. But I think he got the picture once I told him I loved him,” she said pointedly.

Derek’s heart pounded in his chest, that tense knot of anxiety sending flickering tendrils of dread and hope through his veins.

“Derek?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“When he wakes up, you need to go in there and tell him you love him,” Garcia murmured.

He froze, swallowing sharply. The hairs on the backs of his hands pricked as that instinctive fear overtook him. It was a reflex hammered into him for as long as he had known what love was. He was getting better at shutting that internalized homophobia down, but that panic would never fully go away. He knew Garcia would be the least likely to care – he was more than willing to bet his badge and gun that she wasn’t straight – but it still lodged like a knife thrust in his gut. 

“...I never told you about that,” he said bluntly, “I never told anyone about that.”

“C’mon, Morgan, I may not be a profiler, but I’m not dumb,” Garcia teased him softly, “You’ve already told him in a million ways. You’ve just gotta do it in a way he understands.”

He swallowed thickly. “...I don’t know how.”

“You’ll know,” she said softly.

“What if he doesn’t feel the same way?” he asked quietly.

He cocked an eyebrow as Garcia tried to muffle a chuckle. “I don’t think you need to worry about that, love.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, use your big boy profiler brain,” Garcia replied, “Haven’t you ever wondered why he always blabs about his interests to you? Or why he always wants to be around you? Or why you’re the only one who’s allowed to touch him unannounced? I love the guy, and he loves me, but he’d never let me do half the things you do with him on the reg.”

Derek’s pounding heart faltered in his chest.

“...Oh.”

Oh.

He grinned softly, fighting the heat rising in his cheeks. He was grateful to have her there as a voice of reason. He knew she’d tease him endlessly about it later, but for now, she was the judgment-free presence he needed. 

“Everything happens for a reason, Derek,” she said soothingly, “You’ve just gotta believe that.”

Everything happens for a reason.

He could get behind that sentiment – it toed the fine line between atheism and religion in a way his fractured faith could digest. 

He smiled. Garcia certainly had a strange way of making him feel hope in hopeless situations. 

“Agent Morgan?”

Derek jerked around and saw a frazzled Kimura in the entryway, her hair sticking out every which way and her scrubs wrinkled. Her expression was professionally unreadable, so much so that even he had trouble dissecting it.

“I gotta go, Garcia. I’ll call you back,” he said sharply, hanging up and instantly hurrying over, “Is he OK?” 

“He’s stable,” Kimura replied with a relieved smile, “He’s on a ventilator, but he’s been holding steady so far.”

Derek breathed a muted sigh of relief, tilting his head heavenward and covering his eyes with a shaky hand. 

“You should also know the lab found something unusual in the inhaler we found at the house,” Kimura said, holding up her hands cautiously as Derek’s eyes lit up, “We haven’t determined if it’s the cure yet, but it definitely isn’t asthma medicine.”

“How long until we know?” he asked, rubbing his fingers together and frenetically tapping his foot.

“At least an hour. I have my best people working on it,” Kimura replied. 

“Is he gonna be able to last that long?” Derek asked anxiously. 

“I hope so,” Kimura responded in that frustratingly non-promising way, “He’s a lot stronger than he looks.”

“That’s for damn sure,” Derek said, thinking back on how much Spencer had been through and how he had somehow managed to come out on the other side a gentle, caring soul.

“I will let you know as soon as my team determines if it’s the cure.”

He peered over her shoulder and looked at the man’s ward, watching as the nurses’ shadows moved much more calmly behind the sickly green curtain slung over the doorway. “Please, I need to see him.”

She nodded, beckoning for him to follow. She spoke quietly as they walked. “He’s still unconscious, but his fever isn’t worsening. We’re keeping him sedated so he can rest.”

They ducked past the curtain, the sounds buzzing outside the doorway becoming muffled as they entered the room. 

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Kimura said, gesturing to the singular chair next to the bed, “Press the call button or give a yell if you need anything.”

He nodded, shooting her a grateful smile as she walked away, the curtains flipping closed. 

Derek gently pulled up a nearby chair and gingerly lowered himself down. He took steadying breaths as he took in the man’s haggard appearance. His damp curls tumbled over his forehead, his eyelids jerking as he dreamed through that anesthetic haze. He was soaked in a fine sheen of sweat, and his pallor was accentuated by perspiration that shone in the overhead light. Dried drool crusted around his lips, his mouth slack around the breathing tube. His chest rose and fell in a perfect rhythm, wires snaking out from under his thin gown. His slender hands rested along his sides, the right one bandaged tightly while the left was speared with an IV needle. He looked like nothing more than a waif, but the monitors connected to him beeped ever on. 

Derek tenderly reached out and held the man’s unbandaged hand, swallowing thickly as he felt how chilled it was. He maneuvered those thin fingers until they were entwined with his own, squeezing them gently, suddenly feeling the desperate urge to warm them. 

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he breathed, “Just hold on for me, please.”

He brought those fingers to his lips and grazed them over those bony knuckles, hardly noticing how much his hand shook as he did so. 

He huffed when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out with one hand and squinted at the screen.

What happened is he OK? Garcia texted.

He slowly typed his response, not caring about the typos – he wouldn’t let anything stop him from holding Spencer’s hand until the dork woke up. Hes stavle. I’m with him now. Dr K said they found sometjing in the inhaler.

Is it the cure? 

Idk theyre testig it now.

Pls keep me posted or suffer my wrath

He left a thumbs up before slumping against the handrail on Spencer’s bed. As if crushed by the burden of Atlas, he was suddenly laden with a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion. It burned in his muscles and twitched behind his heavy eyes. He had experienced some truly hellish things on this job, but few rivaled the sheer stress of the past twelve-odd hours. 

But none of that seemed to matter when he squeezed Spencer’s hand, his free fingers tingling as he carded them gently through the man’s damp curls. All his panic about the case, the fear of losing someone he loved, and the anxiety of being in a hospital evaporated the second his skin brushed against Spencer’s burning forehead. He wondered vaguely if touch from a loved one would help Spencer recover even if he had never once told the man about his feelings with his words. 

He mulled over what Garcia had said: you’ve already told him in a million ways. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head at his own naivety. He should know better than anyone that it was nearly impossible for people to truly master their behaviors and actions, so he wondered just how much the team knew about his feelings for Spencer. Would his keen-eyed coworkers interpret his gentle teasing as flirting? Did they see deeper meaning behind the favors and gifts they always gave each other? Would they silently take note of how much touchier they were? Had they noticed how much more protective of each other they had become, especially when they were hurt in the field? Christ, if Garcia could see it, then the others certainly could. 

Maybe Spencer himself had seen it. 

He knew Spencer’s eyes weren’t flickering with each touch because of recognition and that he wasn’t conscious enough to squeeze Derek’s hand back, but he clung to the delusion with that same fervor he had approached prayer with in his youth.

When he was a child, he had knelt within the cramped pews of a musty Catholic church in Chicago and voiced his quiet prayers under his breath, eyes shut tight as though worried an almighty God would perceive him as needy and weak. But as he leaned against the bed railing in that ICU ward in DC, watching Spencer breathe while rubbing the pad of his thumb soothingly across those taut knuckles, he prayed with more reverence than any words he had ever uttered within church walls. The steady beeping of the heart monitor and the faint whooshing of the respirator were his hymns, the stinging scent of disinfectant and rubber tubing his incense. 

It was there in that hospital as he guarded Spencer’s bedside like a sentinel when he knew he was ready for this type of mortal devotion.

Chapter Text

“Agent Morgan?”

Derek jerked, blinking heavily as he emerged from a half-asleep daze. He winced at the pain in his neck and shoulders and looked up to see Kimura peeking through the curtain. She had a small smile on her face that made his heart leap into his throat.  

“Everything OK?” he asked sharply, hurriedly looking at Spencer. The man lay on the bed completely unchanged, the respirator still working his lungs for him. Derek breathed a quiet sigh of relief, a pang of bitterness tugging at his heart.

“I have excellent news,” the doctor replied, a bright glint in her eyes as she carefully drew open the curtain, “We found the cure.”

A smiling nurse peered around the curtain, holding an IV bag filled with a slightly cloudy liquid. He jolted upright as if electrified, squeezing Spencer’s hand tightly. Kimura broke into a wide smile when Derek’s eyes lit up.

“Oh my God,” Derek breathed, slumping back into his seat and resting a shaky hand on his forehead, “Oh, thank God. ”

Kimura chuckled, tilting her head to Spencer. “Thank your man there. He’s the one who helped me look for it in the inhaler. He’s one smart cookie.”

“Yeah, he puts the ‘smart’ in ‘smartass,’ alright,” Derek chuckled, gripping the neckline of his shirt like a lifeline as he shook in pure, utter relief. His heart pounded in sheer elation, racing like a runner chasing a high. His breath shuddered as he uttered an involuntary laugh.

He’s going to live.

“When will he wake up?” he demanded after taking a few shaky breaths, watching warily as Kimura scrutinized the ventilator, adjusted the breathing tube, and tweaked some of the sensors taped to Spencer’s blushed skin.

She gave him a soothing smile. “Not for a while longer, I suspect. A few hours at the very least.”

Derek drummed his free fingers along the bedrail as the nurse started a new IV in a vein along the side of Spencer’s wrist, “But he’s cured now, right? He’s gonna live?”

“He’s still got a long fight ahead of him, but I’m optimistic about his chances,” Kimura replied smoothly. 

“Can’t get a solid yes or no outta you, huh?” he teased gently, far too giddy to be annoyed, elation roaring in his gut.

The doctor laughed. “Sorry. Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

Derek swallowed and gripped Spencer’s hand as he watched that precious ichor trickle down the IV line and flow into Spencer’s veins. Doctor and nurse exchanged quiet medical jargon as they updated Spencer’s chart on a tablet, but his brain was far too addled with a simmering mixture of residual dread and relief to comprehend it.

They found the cure.

A sharp tinge of hope throbbed in his chest. Glancing out the darkened window, he saw the starry sky above, his eyes filled with hesitant wonder. He squeezed Spencer’s hand tighter, and the vastness of the night sky suddenly felt like a comforting blanket rather than the cold realm of an unfeeling God.

Thank you, he thought.

“How long do you think he’ll have to recover once the cure sets in?” he asked, turning back to the doctor as she updated records on a tablet. 

She paused, apprehension flickering across her face for a fleeting moment before gently putting the tablet down and facing him. “Agent Morgan, you should be aware he…he may not be the same when he wakes up.”

Terror hit him like a punch in the gut.

“...What do you mean?” he asked slowly, eyes widening. 

“Well, you saw the anthrax had started to affect his brain, specifically the part that controls speech,” Kimura replied slowly, folding her hands behind her back, “We won’t truly know the extent of the damage until he wakes up.”

“Damage?” he asked, panic lacing his tone.

“He might struggle with written and oral communication,” she said, but she held up a placating hand when horror blazed across Derek’s face, “But he could also be completely fine. We won’t know until he wakes up.” 

Derek swallowed, his throat tightening and stomach clenching. He cast his gaze over the unconscious man, fear and pity pinching his brows. He reached up to gently brush those damp locks off his forehead, a thick lump building in his throat when he felt how feverish the man’s skin was. He knew how much Spencer treasured his intellect and eloquence and how much his self-esteem relied upon them.

What would happen to him if he lost them?

“How likely do you think it is he’ll have…brain damage?” he croaked, barely capable of letting his voice go above a hushed whisper as he continued to card his fingers through Spencer’s hair.

Kimura folded her arms and tilted her head as she worried her bottom lip. “You’re not gonna like it, but-”

“You can’t say for sure,” he finished with a bitter laugh, his mouth thinning, “Work with me here, doc. Ballpark it.”

The doctor tapped against the tablet, surveying Spencer’s supine form with quick, analytical eyes.

“Dr. Reid has a bright mind, he’s young, and he’s fairly healthy,” she finally said, “He’s more likely to make a full recovery, but I wanted to keep you informed of the possibility so you can remain calm when he wakes.”

He breathed a sigh of relief, grinning at her teasingly. “See, that wasn’t hard, was it?”

She rolled her eyes amicably and patted his shoulder, nodding as the nurse left the room. 

“Thank you, Kimura,” Derek murmured solemnly, meeting the doctor’s somber gaze, “You and your team. I was…I thought for sure he was gonna die.”

She nodded, a small dimple carving her cheek as she smiled before she gave Spencer a quick physical exam. Derek turned back to Spencer, fishing his phone out of his pocket with one hand. Unbeknownst to him, the doctor observed him from the corner of her eye as she carefully examined Spencer with deft fingers. The man seemed to refuse to release his friend’s hand, opting to haphazardly text with one hand as if his grip was the only thing keeping the man tethered to the living world.

She gently cleared her throat. “When he wakes up, he…he’ll probably be scared.” 

“I would be too if I got hit with anthrax and ended up in the hospital,” Derek chuckled, “He’ll bounce back. This ain’t his first time getting hurt on the job.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Kimura replied, gently closing the privacy curtain, “This…This may be none of my business, but…”

Derek’s brow twitched for a fleeting moment before he automatically assumed that calm, neutral expression he always wore when on a case. He nodded encouragingly but couldn’t quell the unrest stirring beneath his skin.  

“You two seem…close. And he respects you a great deal,” she said slowly, nodding to Spencer and folding her arms tightly over her chest, “Just keep in mind he was outed today, as far as I can tell. And he doesn’t have his gender-affirming clothing.”

“Gender-affirming clothing?” Derek echoed, brows knitting together.

The doctor nodded, tilting her head towards Spencer. “Yes, like his chest binder. He’ll probably feel very vulnerable without it.” 

Derek blinked, puzzled, until he looked at Spencer as if he had missed something crucial about his current state. He swallowed sharply when he noticed his rounder chest softly moving as he breathed, and he remembered the hurried, panicked conversation they held for a few precious moments before the anthrax stole Spencer’s ability to speak. 

Oh.

“Honestly I…I was so focused on trying to keep him alive that I forgot about all that,” he admitted sheepishly, averting his eyes from Spencer’s chest out of respect. The man had been so distraught when Derek first saw him like that, so it only felt right.

“That’s understandable,” she said, mirroring his neutrality, “But he’s going to need your support.” 

“And rest assured, I won’t hesitate to give it,” Derek said firmly, holding her gaze unblinkingly.

They studied each other with slightly narrowed eyes for a few moments longer, nodding as they seemed to reach a quiet understanding. She seemed satisfied with his response. 

She snapped off her gloves and tossed them into the nearest waste bin. “Hungry?”

Derek shook his head, waving a grateful hand. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“I insist,” Kimura replied, “You’ve had a long day.”

He puffed a laugh through his nose as she drew the curtain closed and walked away without hearing his response. He heaved a gusty sigh and leaned against the bedrail, resuming his careful vigil, mulling over fresh food for thought.

Spencer’s transgender. 

He’d always suspected something was different about Spencer, but his suspicions were more aligned with the concept that the man wasn’t straight. Sure, he sometimes displayed some stereotypically feminine mannerisms and body language, but Derek had just assumed it was a by-product of his autism, or he was simply in the closet. His eyes always seemed to unconsciously stray towards attractive male passersby whenever the team was out in the field, the same way Derek became distracted whenever a particularly attractive member of any sex flaunted by on stakeouts. It was natural for them, something neither of them could resist. 

However, Spencer always seemed to bond with women better than men – the women of the BAU said time and time again that he was their favorite of the men on the BAU. He was always a sympathetic ear, a largely non-threatening person who always seemed to understand the struggles of the women on the team, the female unsubs, or female victims. Derek had let his biases and judgments of Spencer’s behavior cloud his judgment – ultimately, Spencer’s identity was none of his business. The man could have wings and retractable claws for all he cared – there was never an instance of Spencer Reid that would fail to charm him with that wit, that heart, and that passion.

He nodded absently when the nurse returned with a sandwich, several cups of jello, and two spoons. He was far too lost in thought to speak. He knew it would take some time for his brain to catch up to the truth about Spencer’s identity. It had a lot to sift through after today’s events, like a gold miner panning in roaring floodwaters. But it took his heart no time at all to arrive at a conclusion with complete clarity: he was utterly in love with this man. Nothing could change that, not even gender, sex, or dances with death.

And so he sat, eating his food and waiting like a dedicated guardsman for Spencer to wake up.

Everything felt…slow.

Each minor twitch of a muscle felt like trudging through a thick puddle of steaming mud. Unfocused, fuzzy, bleary. A lingering inhale, an endless exhale, each slow, burning breath clawing against inflamed tissue in the lungs, the throat, and out the mouth like a singular nail against a long chalkboard.

A bright light fought for attention, piercing the tenebrious haze like a spear. Air rushed over aching vocal cords, orchestrating a small groan of protest as Spencer blearily opened his eyes. 

Where’s Derek?

His head pounded like a drum, blood roaring thickly in his ears. His joints were stiff like rusty hinges, each minor movement feeling like razor blades slicing his bones. Each breath and swallow stung like a hornet’s strike at the back of his throat, his jaw aching as his tongue fumbled around his dry, tacky mouth. His skin pricked and itched on his chest, his chapped lips stinging and sore. A series of consistent beeps filtered into his ears, the sharp scent of disinfectant burning his nostrils.

Hospital.   

He craned his neck and squinted at the nearby window, fighting to focus through dry, itchy eyes. It was dark outside. How long had he been here? His body felt like molten lead, heavy and burning like metal in a fiery forge. He blinked heavily, peeling his eyelids away from the thick crust that had formed over his eyelashes. Hazily, he tried to raise his hand to wipe it away, but he couldn’t move his fingers. 

Squinting down, he saw a neat bandage wrapped tightly around the fingers on his right hand, constricting his movements. He tried to flex them, wincing at the sharp pain radiating through them and pondering lugubriously about why they hurt so bad. He twitched his left hand, but his fingers were enveloped in a tight, unrelenting warmth. 

He heard slow, rhythmic breathing, the grip on his hand twitching slightly as he tried to move his fingers. He took a sharp breath when he saw Derek slumped uncomfortably against his bed rail, snoring softly. The agent had interlocked his fingers around Spencer’s own, carefully avoiding the IV stuck on the back of his hand. Judging by the ache in his fingers, Derek had been holding his hand for a long time. 

Spencer’s dry eyes stung unexpectedly, a tight warmth blossoming deep in his chest at the sight. The man looked utterly exhausted, a heavy shadow of stubble cropping across his shapely jaw and dark bags blooming beneath his eyes. He had a red fleck of jello along his slightly parted lips, and an empty plate lined with crumbs and an empty jello container perched on the table that projected over his bed.

“...You eating my jello?” Spencer chuckled hoarsely, wincing at how raw this throat felt.

Derek uttered a soft groan, blinking hazily. The man winced when he sat up and tried to pull his hand away as he moved to stretch, but Spencer gripped it as hard as his still-weak muscles could.

Spencer smiled softly through a languid, half-lidded gaze when Derek’s face immediately lit up like the sunrise when he saw him. The man’s dazzling smile creased those familiar crow’s feet by his sparkling eyes. 

Adorable, Spencer’s tired mind thought.

“Oh, thank God,” Derek breathed in a hoarse, shaky voice, leaning forward with bright, eager eyes and squeezing Spencer’s hand like a bear trap.

Spencer winced. “Ow.”

Derek murmured a quick apology and tried to pull his hand away, but Spencer snatched it back. He ignored the shooting pain from the IV as he locked eyes with the man. They were bloodshot, exhausted, and heavy with dark bags. But life stirred within them the longer they held each other’s gazes.   

Beautiful, Spencer’s foggy brain cooed. 

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking away awkwardly as his cheeks burned, “You can still…y’know…just don’t squeeze too hard.”

When Derek uttered that delighted laugh, the one as rich as warm church bells on a sunny morning, Spencer realized he had loved it since day one. He blew a puff of mirth through his nose and gently held Derek’s hand, calmed by the way he could feel the man’s racing heartbeat through his fingers.

“You’re talking,” Derek breathed, shaking slightly as thankful chuckles wracked his body.

Spencer knitted his brows together, fighting to think through the thick haze clouding his brain. 

“Am I not s’pose to be?” he murmured to himself.

“Hey, doc!” Derek called over his shoulder, “Look who’s back!”

Spencer squinted when the privacy curtain around his bed spilled open to reveal Kimura, the bright light from the ward hurting his tender eyes. The doctor was smiling, a twinkle in her eye as she plucked some gloves from the dispenser by the door. 

“Welcome back, Dr. Reid,” she said warmly, smirking gently as she observed the delighted expression on Derek’s face.

“Thanks,” Spencer chuckled, his chest wheezing as he tried to sit up. “I thought we agreed to never see each other again?”

The doctor gave a chimelike laugh as she rounded the bed, moving to press him back down before jerking her hands away at the last minute. “Easy there, go slow.”

“...What happened?” he asked blearily, his aching throat, feverish mind, and sore lungs struggling to string together words, “We found the cure?” 

“We did,” Kimura replied, adjusting the bag of fluid hanging from his IV, “It was in the inhaler, just like you thought.”

Spencer gave a wheezy sigh of relief, eyeing the IV with a tired spark of scientific interest in his eyes. “How’s Abby? And the other patients?”

“She’s on the mend, as well as the three remaining survivors,” Kimura replied, “We got it to them just in time.”

“That’s good,” he rasped, smiling softly, “That’s really good.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Spencer swallowed thickly, wincing. “My throat feels…odd.”

“That’s likely from the breathing tube. A little irritation is normal,” Kimura replied, pouring him a cup of water from the pitcher at his bedside as Spencer winced and tenderly rubbed his neck, “I’d like to do a couple of quick tests and a physical exam. Do you feel up to it?”

Spencer slowly swallowed down the water before nodding hesitantly, allowing Kimura and a nurse to conduct a battery of tests. He shuddered at each touch, each graze feeling like a knife thrust into feverish skin riddled with nerves that had been rubbed raw. He unconsciously shrank away every time they flashed a bright light in his eyes, looked down his throat, had him cough, and unbandaged his hand to examine the lesion. He wanted them to stop touching him. He wanted everything to stop hurting. He wanted to go home.  

“You seem to be making good progress physically,” she said, taking off her stethoscope and smiling after listening to the man’s lungs, “I’d like to take some blood, alright?”

Spencer took a shallow, shuddery breath and nodded despite the electric pangs of pain and overstimulation fritzing beneath his skin. He hadn’t realized he had unconsciously shifted closer to Derek, his hand beginning to tremble in the man’s grip as the nurse wheeled in a cart with some needles and vials. 

“You don’t like needles either?” Derek murmured gently, smiling reassuringly when Spencer turned to look at him with those big, reproachful eyes. 

“...I doubt anyone really likes needles,” he responded with a nervous chuckle, eyeing the nurse like a cornered animal as she swabbed his elbow with disinfectant and tied a large rubber band tightly around his thin bicep.

“We’re using the smallest one we can,” Kimura said, nodding knowingly as he grew pale at the sight of the nurse palpating his elbow and readying the syringe, “Try to relax, alright?”

Spencer’s gut wrenched, sweat pearling on the back of his neck and making his palms clammy. Kimura’s sympathetic expression did nothing to heal his already injured pride. He reinforced his grip on Derek’s hand and stared transfixed at the needle poised over his veins, tendons in his neck and wrists as taut as a bowstring.

“You don’t have to look,” Kimura urged gently, tilting her head towards Derek.

“Yeah, keep looking at me, baby,” Derek teased, his eyes glinting when Spencer immediately turned to gawk at him, a dusting of pink high in his cheeks, “I ain’t never gonna get tired of that pretty face lookin’ back at me.”

Spencer’s pale face went bright red as he sighed in mock annoyance, his eyes skittering everywhere but Derek’s cheeky face and the needle sinking into his skin. “Oh my god, Derek, shut up. ”

“Nope,” Derek teased, pleased to see his distraction worked as the tension dissipated from the tendons in Spencer’s neck. 

“I hate you,” Spencer grumbled, red as a tomato. He laid back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling, still squeezing Derek’s hand all the same.

Derek laughed. “No, you don’t.”

Spencer huffed, fighting back a grin.

A few moments later, the nurse cleared her throat, smiling softly as she withdrew the needle. “Alright, you’re all done.”

Spencer blinked. “Really?”

“Yup!”

“...I didn’t even feel it,” Spencer mumbled with soft incredulity, watching as the nurse placed a bandage on his elbow. He gave a quiet thanks when she whisked the vials away.

“It’s easier when you have a friend,” Kimura said gently, nodding at the nurse as she left the room, “One last thing I’d like to do for you at the moment. Since you exhibited signs of aphasia, I’d like to consult my neurologist colleague and have her conduct a neuro exam.”

Spencer blinked, furrowing his brow. “I had aphasia?”

“You don’t remember?” Derek asked, worried.

“It’s normal to have a bit of memory loss when coming off the sedatives,” Kimura interrupted reassuringly, “Can you tell us what you do remember, Dr. Reid?”

Spencer shook his head slowly, biting his lip and adjusting himself more comfortably as he sluggishly gathered his thoughts. “I remember being in the lab and then…”

He grimaced, his chest stinging with each movement. He wiggled gently to try to adjust his binder, but he froze when he felt nothing between his tender flesh and the gown. As if electrocuted, memories flooded back – the lab, having to strip down for the decontamination shower, being outed to Derek-

A horrible, gut-wrenching pang of dysphoria tore through him when he saw his unbound chest completely noticeable under the thin hospital gown. He twitched his legs, a tight lump of emotion swelling in his throat when he realized he wasn’t wearing his packer – he felt a rough, itchy pad between his legs instead. He shuddered as he tried to take slow, deep breaths, the monitor beside him beeping faster and faster. 

“...Where are my clothes?” he asked in a small voice, pulling the blanket up to his chest and lowering his gaze.

Kimura sighed sadly. “I’m sorry. They were contaminated, so we had to dispose of them. All of them.”

His breathing became shallow, his heart hammering in his chest. He gripped the blanket tightly and drew his knees up to his chest, desperately trying to control his racing thoughts and hide whatever dignity he had left. But where was dignity when he was dressed in nothing but a thin hospital gown, his chest and lack of dick out for all to see as he bled on some shitty hospital pad? The monitor gave off a pealing alarm as his heart pounded like a drum in his chest, his aching throat starting to spasm horribly. Derek squeezed his hand.

“Dr. Reid, take slow, deep breaths for me, OK?” Kimura said calmly, hurrying to his bedside, “You’re having an anxiety attack.”

“I-I need to go home,” Spencer rasped, wrenching his hand from Derek’s unrelenting grip and kicking off the blanket, struggling to sling his legs over the side of the bed, “I need my clothes-”

Derek and Kimura’s protests fell on deaf ears that were filled with a panicked ringing. Derek quickly moved to block Spencer’s exit.

“Hey, hey, you’re OK, buddy,” he interrupted soothingly, gently grabbing Spencer’s shoulders and easing him back to the edge of the bed when he stood on shaky legs, “You don’t have to worry about that, alright? You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Reid snapped, dislodging Derek’s hands with a jerky roll of his shoulders, “I just need my clothes- ”

“You can hardly stand up, man,” Derek reasoned, tension lacing through his voice, “I know you don’t wanna wear this stuff. I wouldn’t either if I were you, but you’re too sick to leave.”

“I’ll sign an AMA,” Spencer bit back, collapsing onto the bed and wincing as he rubbed at his aching temples, willing the nauseating vertigo from standing up too quickly away. 

“No, you will not, ” Derek responded sharply, planting his feet and folding his arms, blocking his escape.

Spencer uttered a vicious snarl, hugging his arms to his chest, bitter bile building in his throat, “Derek, you don’t understand. I need my clothes-”

“I know, man,” Derek said, kneeling and holding Spencer’s forearms when he tried to push himself off the bed, “We’ll get you new binders, alright? Is that what they’re called?”

Derek watched with a heavy heart as a horrific streak of panic blazed across Spencer’s terrified face, his watery eyes wide as he blinked heavily like a buck in headlights. His bloodshot eyes darted around Derek’s calm face, desperately trying to read through the neutrality.

“Oh god, you know ?” he gasped.

“I know,” Derek murmured gently, reaching up and cupping Spencer’s stubbly cheek. The man’s sharp exhales were warm on his wrist. “It doesn’t change anything, I promise. You’re alright. Everything is alright.”

Spencer blinked rapidly, all the tears, stress, and horror of the day coming to a raging head all at once. He quaked like a lone tree in a hurricane, slowly covering his mouth with a hand to try to choke down the sob that was building deep in his throat. He hunched forward, slamming his closed fist into his knee in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the panic, each thud against his flesh sending stinging stabs of pain from the cut on his hand. He had to stay calm. He had to stay calm. He had to stay calm-

“Nope, none of that,” Derek said in a gentle but reprimanding tone, forcing Spencer’s fist back onto the bed, “You’re alright, OK? Deep breaths.” 

Spencer breathed raggedly, trying to yank his hands back so he could calm himself, force himself to stay grounded. But Derek easily overpowered him in the same gentle way he always did when Reid’s self-soothing became harmful. He let out a strangled sob. Why was Derek still caring so much? 

Derek’s words echoed in his mind, clear but indecipherable in the face of his dysphoria: it doesn’t change anything, I promise. 

He’s lying. He can’t be cool with this.

He became ensnared in his thoughts, far too closed off to notice when Derek mumbled to the doctor, who left the ward and drew the curtain behind her.

Derek knew Spencer would never crack until he permitted himself to let everything go. The man had a delayed response to trauma, often slipping into the same terse state he was in right now until everything caught up to him and he snapped like a tree finally giving way in a gale. 

Judging by the way he shook, he was getting closer and closer to breaking.

Derek sighed in sympathy and buried his fingers in the back of Spencer’s mussed-up hair, pressing gently on his nape and nudging along the man’s bony spine, urging him forward.

“C’mere,” he murmured, gathering Spencer’s stiff form close, “I got you, pretty boy.”

It seemed the name was all Spencer needed to snap back to reality, and when he did, the world came crashing down around him. 

The younger man finally gave way, lurching forward and crashing against Derek’s chest like a collapsing bridge. His tense fingers latched into the back of Derek’s shirt, repeatedly creasing and releasing the textured fabric as he desperately tried to soothe himself. He buried his feverish face into Derek’s neck and finally let go, releasing a muffled, gut-wrenching wail that cut Derek to his very core. He immediately whisked him into a bone-crushing hug.

They clung to each other like they were starved, like they needed to get each other under their skin. Derek released a pent-up, shaky sigh of relief and buried his face into Spencer’s hair, breathing in the mixture of sweat and sharp disinfectant soap. Spencer wept brokenly in his arms, digging his fingers into any skin he could reach while hiccuping and sobbing. Tears pricked Derek’s eyes at the sound, anguish burning deep in his chest as he rubbed Spencer’s back. He never wanted to hear the man cry again. He only wanted to hear that beautiful laugh, only wanted him to be alive and happy. 

Derek didn’t know how shaky he was until he tried to gently dig his fingers into Spencer’s hair, his fingers shaking amongst the tangled strands. He took steadying breaths and gently scratched the man’s scalp, memorizing the feel of him in his arms. 

Spencer was alive. He was warm and quivering and alive.  

As Spencer let himself cry everything out, Derek whispered a mixture of soothing nothings and delirious prayers of gratitude into his ear. The gravity of their situation was descending on them like an avalanche, and neither could barely breathe.

“God, you scared the shit out of me today, babe, you know that?” Derek eventually said in a strangled whisper, reinforcing his grip around the man and nuzzling his face deep into the soft curls on the top of his head, “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”

“I’m s-so sorry,” Spencer finally choked out, digging his fingers into Derek’s shoulders.

“Sweetheart, you really gotta stop apologizing for everything. It wasn’t your fault,” Derek scolded gently, voice muffled, “I’m just so fucking glad you’re alive .”

Spencer gave a shuddery hiccup. “...Please don’t hate me.”

Derek blinked. “...Why would I hate you?” 

“I-I’ve been lying to you about who I am. That’s a huge betrayal of trust,” Spencer said in a muffled voice, “I’d probably hate me too.”

“Spencer ,” Derek chuckled reprimandingly.

Spencer pulled back, quickly wiping his nose and dropping his gaze. But Derek wasn’t going to let him look away this time. He cupped Spencer’s cheek, the man’s patchy stubble sending thrills through the nerves in his palm as he urged him to look up. Spencer slowly looked back at him, his tired brown eyes swollen, bloodshot, and watery. 

He was there, safe, alive. And God, Derek swore he had never looked more beautiful.

“I will never hate you, you hear me?” Derek said, wiping a stray tear away with his thumb, “I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman or whatever. Hell, I wouldn’t care if you had three heads. What I care about is in here and here.”

He gently flicked the man’s forehead and sternum, which earned him a sweet, watery chuckle as a reward. 

Spencer rolled his eyes and failed to fight off a weak grin. He reached up and held onto Derek’s wrist, blinking languidly and holding his gaze with no effort at all. “...You’re sure you’re not mad?”

Derek chuckled, smiling softly when Spencer nuzzled into his hand, his eyes screwed tight as he fought back more tears, “I’m sure. I promise.”

The man sniffed and spoke in a small, broken voice. “...I have a hard time believing that.”

Derek puffed in gentle disbelief and leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Spencer’s feverish forehead. Spencer froze in a dreamlike trance at the feeling of those chapped lips on his skin, suddenly feeling like he had been reduced to nothing more than a raging pulse and a pounding heart.

“Pretty boy,” Derek whispered, resting his forehead against Spencer’s, his eyes falling closed, “I love you. You have to know that by now, right?”

Spencer closed his eyes and let out a shaky sigh as he leaned into him, reaching out to intertwine their fingers and giving Derek’s hand a small squeeze, “...I’m…arriving at that conclusion.”

“See, I told you you’re a beautiful genius,” Derek hummed teasingly.

“You’re just saying that,” Spencer chuckled, pulling away and scrubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, “I’m a fucking mess right now. God, I’ve been a fucking mess all day.”

“You almost died, dumbass,” Derek argued lovingly, rubbing Spencer’s knee, “I’d say you’re perfectly justified if your head isn’t on straight right now.”

“Since when is my head ever on straight?” Spencer quipped dryly.

Derek chuckled. “Fair point.”

Spencer heaved a blustery sigh, which erupted into a sharp coughing fit. Derek hurried to hand him the cup of water on the bedside table.

“...God, that hurts,” the man rasped after greedily sucking it down.

“What does?” Derek asked, immediately tense and scanning him up and down. 

“Everything,” Spencer chuckled bitterly, patting Derek’s knee soothingly, “My lungs, my throat, my hand, my pride.”

“Well, I’m sure that cure can fix at least a few of those things,” Derek laughed, tilting his head to the IV bag, “So get your skinny ass back in bed, alright?”

Spencer grumbled and slid back onto the bed, retrieving the blanket. Derek noticed he didn’t pull it up to cover his chest this time, and he didn’t blush when he reached out and grabbed Derek’s hand.

“Doing better?” Derek asked, immediately intertwining their fingers.

Spencer gave him a weak grin and rubbed his thumb along Derek’s knuckles. “...Yeah.”

“Think you’re up for those tests?”

Spencer wrinkled his nose but nodded, smiling when Derek shot him a wide grin. Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest like a drum, and his eyes fluttered closed when Derek leaned down to press another soft kiss on his hairline. Spencer wanted to scream . Damn Derek for acting like they did this every damn day and not like it was one of the most intimate things Spencer had ever experienced in his life. And yet he stood up so casually, wincing at the stiffness in his injured knee like he always did as he moved to call for the doctor. 

“Derek?”

Derek turned, looking expectant. 

Spencer tugged at the loose threads at the edge of the blanket, fighting to keep eye contact but ultimately failing as he spluttered around his words. “Um…Thanks for staying with me. Here and at the lab. You didn’t have to.”

Derek simply smiled, “I wanted to. Besides, I never fall back on a promise.”

He winked before disappearing beyond the curtain, briefly leaving a blushing Spencer in his wake.

Soon after, Kimura dragged an embarrassed and apologetic Spencer through another ringer of tests. She and a neurologist watched the man eat and drink, observed him as he passed a written and oral test with flying colors, and made note when the man reported his symptoms were becoming less intense. His fever had broken, and he was slowly getting an appetite. 

Spencer was grateful for Derek’s presence – he diligently sat with him through most of the tests and was a resilient factor Spencer could constantly rely on through the sensory hell this hospital stay was turning out to be. But when Kimura’s team had to take him away for “a quick scan” Derek wasn’t allowed to attend, both were unsettled. He watched with a heavy heart as Derek began to pace the now empty ward as the nurse wheeled him deeper into the ICU, but he was getting far too tired to be nervous. Sleepily, he submitted himself to the tests, longing for Derek to take them home.

The sun was rising by the time the nurses sent him back to his room. As he was wheeled through the now familiar ICU, he saw other patients with bandaged eschars getting similar tests done, their eyes bright. He swallowed heavily and smiled softly to himself. Rare was the day when his work directly and tangibly saved lives. Even Abby, the victim they had interviewed earlier, was more animated as he wheeled past. But he noticed each patient’s bedside was empty, with no family or loved ones waiting for them. 

He briefly wondered how Derek had managed to stay with him when it was obvious loved ones weren’t allowed to visit, but he knew better than to ask – the man was all too comfortable with bending the rules, especially when Spencer was involved. But he knew he was damn lucky to have him waiting there back at the ward. The man instantly brightened when he saw him coming and quickly stood up. 

“How ya feelin', bud?” he asked with a smile as he helped the nurse put the bed back in place. 

Spencer cracked his heavy eyes open at the sound of his voice. “...Exhausted.”

Derek chuckled as he settled back into his seat. “I bet.”

They both perked up when Derek’s phone rang. Spencer winced as he sat up and listened expectantly as Derek answered in an urgent, hushed voice. The man closed his eyes and uttered a soft prayer of thanks as he hung up moments later. 

“They got the unsub,” he said wearily, sinking back into his chair and heaving a sigh of relief.

“What happened?” Spencer asked.

“Tracked him down to a train station near Fort Detrick just as he was about to dose the place,” Derek explained, “Turns out he’d been rejected from a position there numerous times. It looks like each attack reflected his fear of rejection. He lashed out.”

Spencer twisted his fingers anxiously. “Is everyone OK?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. He came in quietly without anyone else getting hurt.”

“Thank God,” Spencer breathed, eyes falling shut, “Oh, thank God.”

Derek smirked to himself, casting his glance at the early morning sky. Thank God, indeed.

Around midday, the rest of the team trickled in to visit their injured comrade. The pair heard Hotch’s stern voice from across the ICU as he argued with the nurse who tried to bar Derek’s entry earlier. They also watched as Kimura hurried over to mediate the situation. Minutes later, the team flooded into the ward, armed with Spencer’s go-bag, get-well cards, smiles, and open arms.

Everyone had relief on their faces – even Hotch and Rossi had small grins as they watched the rest of the team hug the man and ruffle his hair, gently scolding him for scaring them so badly. 

Derek watched with a sense of disheartened pride as Spencer put on a brave face through it all. He had drawn his knees up to his stomach and bunched the blanket over his chest when he got word they were coming. He hugged carefully, meticulously ensuring his chest never touched anyone. He was remarkably subtle – he fluidly adjusted the blanket between chatting and smiling, and none of them seemed to even notice he was giving it extra attention. Derek took it all in with a newfound sense of sadness in his heart. How many steps did the man have to take each day for the past five-odd years to make sure he remained undetected in the BAU? God, it must be exhausting.

How could they all have made him feel like he needed to hide?

Spencer was mortified with all the attention. It wasn’t easy being the baby of the group – he blushed at the cards like they were the ministrations of an overly affectionate mother. But as he observed the room with warmth filling his heart and his eyes, he was arriving at another conclusion. With JJ and Emily perched on the edge of his bed to be near him as they chattered, Hotch and Rossi hovering nearby with almost imperceptible grins, Garcia squeezing his free hand, and Derek standing at the head of his bed with his hand constantly stroking his hair, he suddenly wondered if he needed to be so guarded around them. Maybe someday soon, he could tell them all. 

But for now, he was content with the person he loved the most knowing his whole self. He didn’t need to fight to get Derek’s attention – when he looked up, Derek was looking back with a gleam in his eye and a gentle, loving smile. Spencer hummed quietly and grinned at the man through a half-lidded gaze, loving the gentle feel of his fingers in his hair. Garcia observed this with a content, triumphant smile blooming on her face. 

Kimura knocked on the doorframe a while later, her soft smile fighting through her exhaustion. “Hello, BAU team. Can I have a moment alone with Dr. Reid to discuss his outlook?”

“No, it’s OK,” Spencer interrupted as the team started to rise, a gentle blush dusting his cheeks, “They’re…They’re basically family at this point.”

The doctor smiled as the team grinned at him, punched his arm, squeezed his hand, or ruffled his hair. “OK. I’d like to keep you overnight for a few days at the very least just to give the cure time to work and ensure your lung function improves.”

Spencer’s face fell. He opened his mouth to object but closed it and simply nodded when the team silently shot him stern looks, shook their heads, or narrowed their eyes. This wasn’t their first rodeo with Spencer trying to leave hospitals sooner than he needed.  

“We’ll do shifts!” Garcia said brightly, reaching for Spencer’s skinny wrist and grinning, “Dibs!”

“Guys, I’m fine, ” Spencer sighed heavily, his protests drowning in a harsh coughing fit that had him wheezing. 

“And that right there is exactly why you’re gonna stay and not try anything funny like sign an AMA,” Derek reprimanded, handing Spencer his drink.

“I’ll sign it when you’re not looking,” Spencer replied dryly after sucking down some water, “Please don’t do shifts. I’m sure you’re all just as tired as I am.”

He grumbled when they again gave him the looks and the head shakes. He couldn’t fight the small grin forming on his face and the warmth flooding his heart. They were doing shifts just to keep him company. 

“After that, I’d recommend you take the next few days to recuperate at home,” Kimura continued, glancing at Hotch and Rossi, “I’m happy to write him a note.”

Hotch shook his head dismissively, “No need.”

She turned back to Spencer. “I’d like for someone to be with you at home for a day or two in case of any side effects.”

She looked pointedly at Derek. “I’m sure that can be arranged?”

Hotch and Rossi raised eyebrows. JJ, Garcia, and Emily glanced at each other mischievously, tittering amongst themselves and falling silent when Derek cleared his throat and shot them a searing look.

The agent then grinned sweetly at the doctor, patting Spencer’s head. “Sure thing, doc.”

Kimura puffed a laugh from her nose. “I’d say you’re responding to the cure very well, Dr. Reid. I wouldn’t be surprised if you recovered fairly quickly.”

“Thank you, Dr. Kimura,” Spencer replied quietly. 

The doctor dipped her head and left the room. Spencer heaved a heavy sigh, suppressing the coughing fit that followed as best as he could. He rolled his eyes and accepted the water Derek pushed in front of him. 

“Looks like I’ll be using some of those sick days you’ve been telling me tales about, Hotch,” he joked, earning him snickers and warm smiles.  

“Wait until you hear about the myth of hazard pay,” Hotch teased dryly.

Midday morphed into early evening, orange beams of a newborn sunset trickling in from the windows. They joked and bantered, clinging to this rare instance of relief and joy on the job. They all had their brushes with death, and it had taken several miracles to keep them all in one piece thus far. Too often, they found themselves terrified for each other’s safety – even Garcia managed to get in mortal danger sometimes. So they all cherished moments like the ones in Spencer’s ward, where they chattered perhaps too openly about the resolution of the now very classified case and complained loudly about how the military had completely uprooted their space. 

But Derek could tell Spencer was getting strained. He was starting to show those familiar signs of tension – the sharply protruding tendons in his neck as he swallowed, his tense jaw as he gritted his teeth, and his eyes’ tendency to fix anywhere but the team’s gazes when they engaged him in conversation. The bags under his eyes were darker than ever, his chapped lips splitting as his mouth thinned while forcing smiles and fighting back grimaces. He stiffened as the team kept touching him even when he was clearly at his limit – Derek had long since taken his hand out of Spencer’s hair. However, Spencer would never have the heart to send the team away voluntarily, so Derek acted quickly when the man shot him a quick pleading look. He managed to persuade the team to go home and rest and leave Spencer to him, but not before they handed him the keys to an FBI vehicle and Spencer’s go-bag. 

“Alright, Garcia,” Derek said, shooing the woman from her seat as the rest of the team trooped out, “Go home. Get your beauty rest.”

“I called dibs. This is my home now,” Garcia reminded him cheerily, pulling her latest knitting project out of her voluminous purse, “Me and Reid are gonna gossip about boys and pinky promise each other to never waltz into anthrax-infested rooms and scare me like that ever again -”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer chuckled quietly, shrinking into the bed with a small grin when Garcia wielded a knitting needle at him threateningly.

“-Besides, you’ve had him all day. Mom said it’s my turn,” she said with a huff, “And you should know my beauty is eternal regardless of whether I get sleep or not.” 

“You’re right, princess, I’m sorry,” Derek chuckled, his grin all teeth and dimples. 

“Either of you know if there’s any more of that jello, though?” she asked, eyeing the cups on Spencer’s tray, “I’m famished.”

“Uh uh, go famish yourself over at the vending machine in the next room,” Spencer hissed, swiping the cup out of reach, “That’s my jello.”

“Deuces,” Garcia said, untangling herself from her yarn and exiting in pursuit of snacks, leaving Derek and Spencer alone again.

“You gonna be alright with her?” Derek chuckled, gathering his things and standing at the head of Reid’s bed.

“Of course,” Spencer replied, wincing as he moved to stand up, “Fortunately, she’s the type of person who can talk without expecting much in response.”

“Hey, hey, what’re you doing?” Derek asked quizzically, catching Spencer around his waist as he moved on unsteady feet. 

Spencer paused before him, a set look in his eyes and his brow furrowed with determination as he reached out and placed his hands firmly on Derek’s shoulders. “Something that scares the shit out of me, admittedly.”

Before Derek could even take a breath, Spencer leaned up and pressed a small, chaste kiss on his cheek. His chapped lips scratched the tender skin for a few precious moments before he pulled away, his face bright red.

“...Thank you for everything today,” he murmured, looking up at him through those long sable lashes, “Can we…can we talk about ‘us’ later? Please?”

Derek blinked, tongue suddenly feeling useless in his mouth as his brain short-circuited. “Uh, y-yeah. Absolutely we can.”

It took everything in Derek not to lean down and kiss that beautiful, giddy smile off those pretty little lips.

The pair jumped when they heard a delighted squeal from the doorway. They whipped around and saw Garcia with a wide grin on her face, all teeth and dimples as she fanned herself out of excitement. 

“I knew it!” she shrieked, flapping her hands excitedly and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Spencer all but sprang away, tumbling back onto his bed while nursing the brightest blush Derek had ever seen. 

“Oh, zip it you gossipy little thing,” Derek groaned, but he couldn’t contain his dazzling grin as he rubbed Spencer’s bony shoulder soothingly.

Garcia waltzed over to Spencer and shook his arm like a child shaking a doll. “We have so much to talk about!”

Spencer covered his face and groaned.

Chapter Text

Spencer managed to avoid further gossipy conversations with Garcia after he promised to keep her updated with his “steaming hot love life” once he spoke with Derek later. He claimed he was exhausted and needed some sleep – her caring nature won out over her desire for gossip, so she let him rest. 

The next week was filled with scans, tests, and scheduled walks around the ward. Kimura and her team monitored his progress, watching and listening as his lungs pieced themselves back together as best as they could and as his lesion shrank. The whole nursing staff had been informed of his delicate situation, and they helped him manage his period under the radar. Eventually, the flow dried up and the cramps went away, but his paranoia about his teammates getting glimpses of his unbound body still kept him awake at night. He spent his restless nights staring at the ceiling, his tired eyes searching for patterns in the plasterboard ceiling tiles and his ears straining for repetitive rhythms in the beeping monitors. When he did manage to find sleep, his mind filled his dreams with Derek. As the days dragged by, those dreams became much more…heated. He often woke from those dreams in a sweat, his heart monitor spilling his secrets as it rapidly beeped. 

It would have been a hellish wave of boredom and tension without the team. Emily was there when he passed his next few rounds of neuro exams; JJ was by his side to catch him if he stumbled when walking around the ward; Garcia listened with him when Kimura informed him that his lungs would likely harbor permanent but minimal damage from this attack. Each did their best to keep him engaged and entertained, filling his ears with chatter and platitudes every second of their visits. It slowly grated on his nerves, leaving them mere frayed threads by the time Kimura told him he was ready to go home on the evening of the seventh day. 

Once Kimura had delivered her good news, Garcia got up to use the restroom after chatting his ear off for the past hour. He sighed heavily, finally able to do so without a coughing fit tearing his lungs apart. Overstimulation buzzed under his skin like a swarm of angry hornets. He scrubbed his face with his hands, dragging them over his eyes and groaning quietly. He ached for some alone time, for some silence. He pulled out his phone and typed a desperate plea to Derek. 

Pls get me out of here

He knew Derek was probably busy with a mountain of paperwork, so he was surprised when the man responded almost immediately.

Lol is Garcia driving you nuts?

Spencer snorted. Everyone and everything is driving me nuts

Did Kimura say you could go?

Yeah I can leave tonight

Hang in there. I’ll be in soon ;)

Derek was true to his word. An hour later, he waltzed in with a lazy smile. “Pretty boy!”

“Derek!” Spencer cried in relief, perking up instantly at the sight of him.

“Penelope!” Garcia said cheerily from her seat, a long, garish scarf trailing on the floor as her knitting needles clicked. 

Derek shook his head and chuckled, observing how Garcia had her feet propped up on Spencer’s bed and how strained the man’s face was. He was quiet, his responses to their questions and chatter clipped, and he never went over a few words. Derek knew not to take the terseness personally – he’d be irritated too if he had been confined to the hospital for a week. He clearly seemed torn between relief and guilt when Garcia rose to her feet and packed her belongings.

“Alright, my sweet,” she said, swooping down to give Spencer a quick hug and grinning toothily at him, “You keep me updated on everything , alright? Let me know if you need anything.”

She turned to Derek before leaving, a stern glint in her eye. “Y’all play nice while I’m gone!”

“Go on, git,” Derek chuckled breezily, waving her out of the room. 

Spencer let out a long, heavy sigh and collapsed back onto his bed, eyes falling closed. Derek shot him a sad smile. Despite recovering in the hospital and probably being the most hydrated he had ever been in recent memory given the IV drip still hooked to his arm, he looked exhausted. His eyebags were more pronounced, and his milky skin was a new shade of pale. He held annoyance and boredom in the corners of his eyes and in his tightly furrowed brows. Derek knew those expressions – overstimulation was edging closer and closer to meltdown. 

But despite his sympathy for him, Derek’s mind wandered elsewhere when looking at him. He tried to keep his heart in his chest as he observed the patchy yet thick five o’clock shadow coating the man’s elegant, finely carved jaw and how his flyaway curls shone in the light. He took in those features with the reverence of scripture and wondered what sinful motivations were convincing him to ask the man to wear a beard more often- 

“Sorry I’m not talkative,” Spencer said quietly, interrupting Derek’s thoughts.

“It’s OK,” Derek replied, leaning back in his chair, “Those clowns probably made you talk nonstop for days, huh?”

Reid grumbled in agreement without any humor for Derek’s joke, his fingers twisting together tightly in his lap. Derek watched those fine tendons and ligaments tense and flex, the veins on the back of his hand sharp and pronounced. He was gnawing on his lip and slowly, almost imperceptibly, rocking back and forth.

“Do you want me to go?” Derek asked gently, “I can come back and grab you when you’re discharged if you need some time-”

“No,” Spencer hissed immediately, gritting his teeth and rubbing his eyes, “Want you to stay.”

Derek settled in his seat, resting his ankle on his knee and observing his companion with a worried expression. “Anything I can do?”

Spencer groaned, twisting his fingers tighter and screwing his eyes shut, shaking his head. Overload.

This wasn’t the first time Derek had seen Spencer start to go into meltdown, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. Experience told him what to do – he rooted through Spencer’s go-bag for his earbuds and MP3 player and gently tossed them onto his lap. The man’s eyes shot open, staring blankly at them until he recognized the object and appreciated the gesture. He gave a wheezy sigh of relief and gratitude, placing them in his ears and his eyes fluttering blissfully closed.

“Thank you,” he rasped, “Sorry.”

“Quit apologizing.”

Soon, the dork was lost in the soothing recordings of Carl Sagan’s lectures. Spencer often said there was something calming about listening to the same recordings over and over again, a smooth groove that always had a way of calming his frayed nerves and sending him straight to sleep. Derek waited dutifully, taking the liberty to have a quick walk around the ICU to get his blood pumping as Spencer slumbered. For once, his mind was blissfully empty. The knot in his chest soothed and loosened the longer Spencer was hooked up to that IV bag with the cure and the closer they got to discharge. 

The evening lights had turned on when Kimura returned to the ward. Spencer was awake but still listening to his recordings, and Derek was trying to parse through the book on particle physics Spencer had in his bag out of sheer boredom. Just as he was about to smack the book against his forehead in utter academic frustration, the doctor knocked on the doorframe, a smile on her face. 

“Alright, Dr. Reid,” she said, “Let’s get you ready for discharge.”

“Thank God,” Spencer grumbled under his breath, smirking as Derek grinned.

Derek graciously stepped outside the room when the nurses helped Spencer get dressed into the clothes in his go bag. He blinked when Kimura gave him a hefty pile of discharge papers, his mind spinning when she discussed care instructions. Something about medication, exercise, and making sure no one knew about the true nature of his illness. He nodded, dazed with the swirl of information and the past few days’ events spinning around his mind.

“Thank you for taking my advice to heart,” she said quietly, folding her arms across her chest.

Derek chuckled, languidly flipping through the papers. “Hey, just following the doctor’s orders.”

“I know it’s not just that,” Kimura chuckled, “You’re a good man, Agent Morgan.”

“And you’re a good doctor,” Derek replied, trying to hide a grin and sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s not often you find one who gets so invested in their patients.”

Kimura chuckled, leaning against the nursing station and observing the shadows behind the ward’s curtains. “I was like him when I was younger. Worried no one would accept me as I was. It’s easy to feel that fear, especially when it comes to gender identity.”

She chuckled when Derek cocked a surprised eyebrow. “Having community and trust can be life-saving. Don’t let him lose that.”

Derek smiled as he thought about the team. “He won’t.”

The pair smiled when a sleepy Spencer emerged from behind the curtain, standing shakily beside a nurse who looked like she was walking beside a precious, fragile vase. He was dressed in his wrinkled go-bag clothes, his curls mussed and sticking out every which way. He smiled softly at Derek with those tired, gentle eyes that the man knew he had fallen in love with since day one. 

“There he is,” Derek purred, moving to Spencer’s side, unsurprised when the man gratefully leaned against him, “Doing alright?”

Spencer gave a relieved sigh, not even flinching or shying away when Derek immediately wrapped an arm around his slender waist. “Yeah. I’m ready to go.”

Kimura escorted them to the exit, standing beside Spencer while Derek ran ahead to get the car. The thin man shivered slightly in the breeze, squinting up at the sunset blazing across the sky. The fresh air felt like a soft breath on his skin.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he said quietly, not quite meeting Kimura’s gaze.

The doctor chuckled. “Thank you for helping me find a way to save it.”

Spencer shuffled his weight from foot to foot, scanning each car that passed by for Derek’s face. “And thanks for being accommodating. Especially because…y’know.”

He gestured to his chest, which felt gawky and odd in the masculine fit of his shirt.

“No need to thank me for that,” Kimura said softly, waving her hand, “Comes with medical care. And with being a decent human being.”

He smiled at her, his eyes glinting softly. They watched Derek pull up, the flashers illuminating Spencer’s pale skin. Spencer turned to the doctor and hesitated only for a moment before he held out his hand for a shake.

“Well, here’s to never seeing each other again,” he chuckled, gaze firm.

The doctor’s chimelike laugh hit Derek’s ears as he got out of the car. His gaze softened when he saw Spencer grinning at her widely, his eye twitching with only minor discomfort when she took his offered hand and shook it. 

“Take care of yourselves, agents,” Kimura said as Spencer eased himself into the passenger seat, “Don’t hesitate to call if anything goes awry.”

Spencer waved gently out the window until Kimura disappeared from view. He sighed softly as he settled back into his seat for what would be an uneventful trip back to his home. He leaned to look out the window, gently rocking back and forth as he watched the stars slowly appear in the night sky above. Derek noted this tension whenever they passed through streetlight beams, so he hummed quietly to himself instead of forcing a conversation. He adjusted the air conditioning until it was simply droning white noise, and he did not remark when Spencer fished his earbuds out of his bag again. Spencer felt guilty for leaving the extroverted man in silence, but Derek seemed completely unbothered, the energy within the vehicle calming and soothing.

Spencer grinned through closed eyes. 

They arrived about an hour later. Spencer opened his eyes when he felt the familiar roads jostle the car beneath them. Derek found a parking spot and gathered up his belongings at a leisurely pace, stuffing the thick stack of discharge paperwork into his bag. Suddenly, the calm that had begun settling in Spencer’s bones vanished as guilt overtook him. God, Derek had to be nearly as exhausted as him – how could he force the man to stay in his cramped apartment?

“You don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to, Derek,” Spencer said quietly, quickly cramming his things back into his bag.

Derek gave an easy, relaxed laugh before stepping out of the car. “Nice try, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not. Doctor’s orders.”

“But I probably don’t have any food that’s good anymore since I’ve been gone so long,” Spencer argued, scratching at his neck as Derek rounded the vehicle and stood firmly at his side, “And my couch is really uncomfortable, and my house is a mess, and I-”

“Spencer ,” Derek interrupted with a soft smile, slinging an arm over his tense shoulders, “We’ll figure something out, OK? Everything is gonna be just fine.”

Despite his nerves and exhaustion, Spencer believed him.

Spencer led Derek up the steps to the complex, groaning when he saw the elevator was still out of service. He grumbled bitterly to himself as they powered through the long climb. Derek would make him rest when his breathing became wheezy, filling the walk up with quiet, unbothered, happy humming. Spencer would have found affection in this behavior if he hadn’t been so dead set on reaching his home and collapsing into nothingness on his bed. 

“Home, sweet home,” Derek quipped when Spencer let them in, watching as he seemed to relax immediately once they crossed the threshold. He gave a noncommital grunt and simply breathed in the familiar scents.

“I need to be alone for a while,” he said in a clipped voice, gaze fixed on the carpet. His fingers splayed rigidly at his sides, the tautness in his ligaments momentarily soothing the unrest skittering around in his chest.

“You OK?” Derek asked, brows knitted in concern as he flicked on one of the lamps. He tossed his bag on the sofa Spencer knew was far too small to accommodate the agent’s large frame-

“Just overstimulated,” Spencer responded through gritted teeth, wincing at the sudden brightness and the anxiety clouding his thoughts, “Can’t talk. Can’t think.”

“That’s OK. Do whatever you need to do,” Derek said calmly, making an effort to speak in soft tones and less complex sentences, “Butter chicken from the Indian place by work for dinner?” 

“Too far away, isn’t it?” Spencer bit out, toeing off his shoes. 

He hated when he got nearly nonverbal like this, like his throat was too swollen with emotion to speak for long. He hated being like this in front of anyone, let alone someone he cared about as much as Derek. But he had been a lot worse before. At least now he could still speak. He knew himself well enough to know this episode wouldn’t last more than an hour or two – the quiet time with Derek at the hospital had staved off the worst of it – but how would they get anything done if he could barely speak full sentences?

But even with barely any words, Derek could immediately read Spencer’s concern for him. “I’ve got a craving and don’t mind the drive. Don’t worry about me, I’m good.”

And Spencer believed him. He sighed in relief and nodded, trying to smile but only able to get out a grimace. 

“I’ll be right back, don’t go all anthrax-y on me when I’m gone,” Derek said with a laugh.

“I won’t,” Spencer managed to chuckle.

Derek smiled and turned to leave but paused when Spencer gave a harried grunt and held up his hand. 

The older man watched with confused interest as Spencer quickly picked through the living room and over to his messy desk. He muttered to himself as he rifled through a drawer, eventually pulling out something small and shiny. He trudged back over to Derek and pressed it into his palm – a small, slightly dinged-up spare key. 

“Thanks. I’ll put it back when I’m done,” Derek said, tossing it up in the air and catching it, shooting Spencer a wide grin. 

The younger man shook his head sharply, drumming lightly on his thighs, gaze hovering around Derek’s collarbones. “No. Keep it.”

Derek blinked, biting back a flirtatious remark as he recognized the weight behind the gesture, the sheer level of trust and faith it held. It was pure potential, a glimpse into what their inevitably intertwined future held. But he couldn’t resist a sultry grin that still made the blank-faced, overstimulated man blush. He watched a red-faced Spencer scuttle to the bedroom and flop face down on the bed before leaving the apartment, locking it with his own key.

He slid into the domesticity of it all without an ounce of hesitation. He stole out of the apartment and headed to the pharmacy listed on the discharge paperwork to pick up the man’s prescriptions. He was surprised when the pharmacist handed him three medications – the large ibuprofen pills and the golden cough medicine capsules Kimura had prescribed, as well as a small vial of testosterone. He grabbed a few of Spencer’s favorite candy bars and paid without a second thought, ordering from Spencer’s favorite local Indian restaurant from memory. He didn’t care if he had to drive an extra hour both ways in the dark and through traffic since the joint was closer to Quantico than Spencer’s home. He would burn the world to the ground if Spencer asked it of him. 

He unlocked the door about two hours later and crossed the threshold like he had always lived there, like he was always meant to be there. He grinned as he tucked that key into his back pocket.

Chapter Text

Spencer had just gotten out of the shower. Steam clouded around the fluorescent light and escaped through the cracked-open window. He stood in front of the bathroom sink wearing nothing but a pair of loose boxers and a dark compression garment that reminded Derek of a sports bra – chest binder, he chastized. His face was lathered with a rich shaving cream, and he glided the razor over his jaw like a sculptor. He seemed more relaxed, with less tension hovering in his face and shoulders. Derek took the sight in with wonder, fumbling blindly behind him as he absently locked the door. He had never seen Spencer in anything besides his usual work attire or the conservative pajamas he wore whenever they had to double up on a case, so this was-

“Hi, Derek,” Spencer called softly, smiling gently at him as if to let him know his mind had calmed down enough for mild conversation. 

Derek shook his head to clear his thoughts, quick to pick up the invitation. “Aww, you shaving off that sexy little beard already?”

Spencer snorted, turning back to the mirror to see himself blushing. “I’d hardly count this patchy thing as ‘sexy.’”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, baby,” Derek purred in response, clearing away some of the debris on the kitchen table and setting down the bags, “I think you look good with a beard.”

“You do?” Spencer asked, eyes bright.

“I do,” Derek chuckled.

“I still have half I haven’t shaved. Should I leave it?” Spencer joked dryly, grinning as Derek laughed.

Derek leaned against the bathroom doorframe and observed Spencer with a soft gleam in his eyes and a gentle grin on his face. “You seem to be in better spirits.” 

Spencer smiled. “Getting there.”

Both quietly marveled at how easily they settled into the night, how there was no awkwardness as they navigated this new space and situation. Something had clicked in their minds, a deep-seated sense of ease and trust neither knew they had been craving.

Derek began dishing out their food onto plates as Spencer emerged from the bedroom, a loose FBI academy shirt billowing over his lanky frame and a weighted blanket in his arms. They ate their food on the couch and slowly bantered back and forth, Spencer pausing during the conversation to pace himself. One moment, he was meeting Derek’s witty remarks with spunky answers, and the next, he was quietly going to the kitchen to fill their drinks and place them on the coffee table. Each moment of soft conversation and silence seemed to bring that glint back into his eyes, which fell closed when he tasted the first warm bite of butter chicken fixed just the way he liked it. 

Derek watched him start to settle and soften with each passing moment, like a cat stretching out in a sunbeam. He had draped the surprisingly heavy blanket over his shoulders – Derek could feel the weight from the part that had flopped onto his knee – and he had placed himself in a comfortable criss-crossed position. He was no longer fidgeting, and he had pressed himself close to Derek’s side. Derek relished the closeness, the comfort, the domesticity of it all as he slowly chewed his tikka masala. They had shared countless meals before, anything from stale police station donuts and cop shop coffee that tasted like dishwater to all-out after-case meals funded my Rossi’s generous wallet, but none of them had ever felt this intimate and special.

To Derek, the evening was almost too good to be true. 

“The Chicago Bears play the Green Bay Packers in ten minutes,” Spencer said suddenly without looking up from his food, interrupting Derek’s train of thought.

Derek blinked, closing the app he had been absently looking at football stats on and quirking a skeptical brow. “...You like football?”

Spencer snorted and tossed him the remote. “I know you do. I don’t know much about modern sports.”

“Then why do you have ESPN+?” Derek asked quizzically as he flicked through the familiar channels. 

Spencer tried to hide a sheepish grin by wiping sauce off his lips with a napkin. “...Got it for you while you were out.”

Derek couldn’t fight back a grin, but he managed to squash down the raging urge to lean over and kiss the spot Spencer had missed on the corner of his mouth. Instead, he turned to the game and kept the volume low, absently listening to the pregame show while downing the rest of his food and ruminating on his thoughts. 

Spencer was right there, all warm skin, soft hair, and shining eyes. His continued existence was nothing short of a miracle, and here he was pressed right up against Derek’s side like Derek was his own personal space heater – Derek could feel every breath he took and could smell his cinnamony shampoo with every movement. Each movement was so smooth, and every swallow made the muscles and tendons in his neck flex.  

Derek wanted to hold him close and explore those muscles with his lips, his tongue, his teeth-

Spencer cleared his throat, making Derek jump.

“So,” the man said quietly, placing his empty plate on the table and twisting his fingers in his lap, “...You have questions.”

Derek quickly swallowed his food, working hard to even his breathing and soothe his racing heart. “About what?”

Spencer gestured to his chest. “Me.”

Derek held up a placating hand. “Hey, that doesn’t have to be any of my business if you don’t want it to-”

“-I want it to be your business,” Spencer interrupted, brows and jaw set as he firmly met Derek’s gaze for the first time in hours, “I trust you. And I don’t want to hide this from you anymore.”

Derek swore he could feel his heart physically swell. Warmth radiated from his chest like the heat of the sun, burning him from the inside out. He sat there grinning like an idiot, taking in every detail on Spencer’s face – the shine of his eyes, the light dusting of freckles on his nose, and his slightly crooked canine teeth when he broke into a shy smile and dropped his gaze. 

Beautiful.

Derek blinked and reached for the remote, ready to turn the game off and give Spencer the full, undivided attention he deserved, but he was surprised when the man batted his hand away. 

“Keep it on,” Spencer said quietly, rubbing his neck sheepishly, “It’s stupid, but…it makes me feel less awkward. Like I’m not the center of attention.”

“No problem,” Derek hummed, turning to keep his gaze on the TV and silencing the nagging voice in his head. Spencer followed suit, his body heat radiating into Derek as he shifted closer.

“What if I ask something rude or too personal?” Derek asked, placing his arm along the back of the sofa and settling more comfortably.

Spencer chuckled through a yawn. “Nothing off limits. Trust me, I’ve heard ‘em all.”

Derek swallowed sharply when Spencer gently rested his head on his shoulder, sighing softly and closing his eyes as he relaxed into him. Derek’s heart pounded as he marveled at how casual it was. But then, he knew Spencer Reid never made a casual move in his life. Suddenly, Derek didn’t want to ask questions. All he wanted to do was lean down and steal that sleepy smile into a soft kiss. 

That first kiss at the hospital had seemingly broken a levee in Derek’s heart – now, he had a constant, all-consuming urge to kiss any part of Spencer he could reach, to let him know just how loved he truly was. But he knew being allowed to ask questions was a huge act of vulnerability given it was coming from a man who typically kept his cards close to his chest, and Derek was as powerless to deny him his every whim as he always had been. 

But how could Spencer still not know Derek would love him no matter what?

“Did you hear me?” Spencer asked softly, “No bad questions.” 

“Y-Yeah, sorry, just thinking of some,” Derek stammered, swallowing thickly, “I, uh…I’m guessing you were born a woman, right?”

Spencer chuckled dryly, his voice vibrating through Derek’s shoulder. “Gee, what gave it away?” 

Derek puffed a laugh, settling more comfortably against him. “What was your girl name?”

“A lot of trans folks don’t like revealing that information, myself included,” Spencer replied calmly, “And it’s usually called a ‘dead name’ rather than a ‘boy name’ or ‘girl name.’”

Derek winced, murmuring a small apology. Spencer dismissed it with a careless flick of his wrist. He didn’t tense or move away, so Derek released the breath he had been holding.  

“Does anyone else know?” he asked.

He felt Spencer shake his head. “Just you, my mom, my doctors, and probably Hotch.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow at him. “Probably Hotch?”

“It’s in my personnel file,” Spencer said with a one-shouldered shrug, “And I know he’s supposed to read those. But he hasn’t said anything to me, so I’m not sure.”

“Do you think you’ll tell the rest of the team?” Derek asked, recalling just how guarded Spencer had been in the hospital when the team first visited and how panicked he had been when Derek found out. 

Spencer sighed and fiddled with the hem of his blanket, absently picking at some fraying threads. “...Maybe. I don’t know.”

Derek sensed Spencer tensing beneath him. His picking became more insistent, his deft fingers unraveling a loose thread, his jaw tightening against Derek’s shoulder. Despite his clearly mounting anxiety, he made no move to pull away – instead, he seemed to seek comfort, tucking his legs beside himself and nestling his chin more comfortably in the crook of Derek’s shoulder.

Derek rested his cheek against Spencer’s head. He swallowed, praying Spencer wouldn’t pull away. He was surprised when the man seemed to emit a soft, content hum, almost a purr of happiness.   

“Are you worried how they’d react?” Derek asked quietly. 

Spencer briefly paused in his fidgeting before giving a quiet, affirmative hum. He tucked his legs even closer to himself and huffed a quick, dejected sign.

Derek’s innate desire to care and protect slipped past his defenses as easily as water around a broken dam. He had pressed a soft kiss to Spencer’s head and was wrapping his arm around the man’s shoulders before he could even think. Spencer, usually so touch-averse, sank into the gestures with a soft sigh.

“I’m sure they’d be fine,” Derek murmured, resting his cheek on Spencer’s head once more as he pulled the man closer, “Some of ‘em might be a little confused, but they love you, man.”

He could feel Spencer’s smile pressed against his shoulder. The man curled his fingers over Derek’s thigh, thumb rubbing soft circles in the muscle. Derek’s nerves immediately blazed to life, his breath hitching faintly. Derek had never thought of himself as touch-starved until then. He gave touch to those he loved so freely, but few rarely reciprocated. Spencer, despite his touch aversions, was quickly becoming one of those rare few. Derek never wanted Spencer to leave his side, wanted to cherish his warmth and the rhythmic feel of his breath on his skin for as long as Spencer could tolerate it. Most of all, he wanted Spencer’s fingers to explore-   

“You know,” Spencer said softly, “I was worried about telling you the most.”

Derek blinked and furrowed his brow, clearing his throat. “What? Why?”

Spencer hummed, rubbing repetitive patterns in Derek’s thigh. “It’s just…”

He sighed sharply, the tips of his ears and the parts of his face Derek could see going bright red. “This job is so much more bearable when you’re with me. I didn’t want…I couldn’t lose you over something like this.”

He gently squeezed Derek’s thigh and burrowed himself closer, tensing as if he expected something to strike him.

Derek’s sappy, romantic brain wanted to say something like I would die if I ever lost you, but his rational brain thankfully took over. 

“If you lost me over this, then I wouldn’t be worth keeping anyway,” he replied in a firm voice, squeezing Spencer close, “It’s a part of you, y’know?”

He held his breath until he felt the tension leaving Spencer’s body, the man going fully boneless and heavy against him. He couldn’t help a small, rumbling chuckle. Had Spencer always been this cuddly? Derek’s heart pounded in his chest. He was starting to adore the man’s hitherto unseen clingy side, waves of warmth flowing throughout his body. 

Words as sweet as maple sugar left his lips before he could check them. “I never wanna lose you, Spence. Never again.”

Spencer adjusted his head so he could look up at Derek. Spencer was met with a soft smile, one he instantly returned. He lifted his hand and hummed when Derek immediately took it, their fingers locking together like a puzzle. Spencer hummed and settled back down, closing his eyes at the fuzzy warmth in his chest. They sat together in a soft bubble of silence, absently watching the game as they basked in the soft warmth.

Spencer could get used to this. He could get used to burrowing into Derek’s warmth, breathing in his spicy scent, feeling his chest rise and fall with each rhythmic breath.  

“Done playing twenty questions?” he chuckled, giving Derek’s hand a quick squeeze to get his attention.

“No, I have more,” Derek said, “But they might be too personal.”

Spencer turned his head as best as he could, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to Derek’s clavicle. The man’s breath immediately hitched, the arm slung around Spencer’s shoulders tightening as if he thought Spencer would scurry away.

How could he not realize Spencer would never run from him ever again?

“Nothing’s too personal,” Spencer murmured, squeezing Derek’s hand gently. “Like I said. I don’t want to hide anything from you anymore.”

Derek nodded slowly and hummed as he thought. “Have…have you gotten any surgeries or anything?”

Spencer swallowed thickly, waving away Derek’s mumbled apology like it was a fly. 

“No,” he replied, “But hormonal therapy gave me the secondary sex characteristics you’re used to, like the voice and the beard.”

“Oh, wow, that’s cool,” Derek said, genuine admiration in his voice, “How long have you been on that?”

“Since I turned eighteen.”

“Which was only, what, three years ago, right?” Derek snickered, wiggling his shoulder teasingly.

He laughed when Spencer gently smacked his knee. “Very funny.”

“Just teasin’.”

“I know.”

They absently watched the game for a few minutes until Spencer humed. “I would have gone on hormones sooner or taken puberty blockers if the state would’ve let me. Now I’m stuck with a chest I don’t want.”

“Do you think you’ll…do anything to change that?” Derek asked.

“Been saving up for top surgery for a while, so my chest is definitely bound for the chopping block,” Spencer replied, smiling when Derek laughed at his joke, “But I’m content with what my…lower half looks like. Hormones made things look… different enough to where it doesn’t bother me.”

Spencer blushed when Derek raised an eyebrow. “Have you like…grown a dick?”

Spencer gave a soft laugh, his free hand tapping nervously on Derek’s knee. “Well, no, but my...uh…clitoris has just kinda grown a bit since it’s the same type of tissue as a…”

He trailed off, ducking his head away from Derek’s view as best as he could. While he could practically feel the smug look on Derek’s face, he could definitely feel the man’s teasing laugh.

“You know,” Derek purred, moving his head to shoot Spencer the sultry smirk that always made Spencer’s brain short-circuit, “For someone who uses anatomically correct terms at work all the time, you’re being awfully shy right now.” 

“This is different!” Spencer spluttered defensively, cheeks darkening as he raised his head to fix Derek with a scowl, “We’re talking about my anatomy, so it’s more...personal.”

“I think it’s cute,” Derek said with a grin, giving Spencer a smooth wink as he sipped at his water. His eyes glinted with a kind of… hunger as they flickered up and down Spencer’s frame. 

Spencer smirked. “How do you know? You’ve never even seen it.”

Derek spluttered on his drink for a brief second before he scrambled to collect himself. Spencer watched as Derek’s pupils began to dilate in real time, his tongue flickering out to lick his lips.

“I meant it’s cute how you’re being all flustered right now,” Derek eventually hummed, eyes bright, “But who knows? Haven’t seen it personally.”

Do you want to see it?

Spencer went red, mortified at the spike of lust whispering in the back of his head. Desire writhed in his gut, strong and unyielding. Damn Derek for speaking so nonchalantly about his anatomy, for making such a simple discussion sound so carnal. He felt his palms start to sweat as he saw Derek watching him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze flitting up and down Spencer’s lounging form and drinking up every detail like he was parched.

Spencer swallowed. Derek was thinking about him like that. And with the way his eyes roamed over him like a tiger sizing up a delicious meal, Spencer felt naked even though he was fully dressed. 

But he didn’t mind it. 

Let him think about it.

“...Maybe if you’re lucky, you will,” Spencer replied, his voice lower and raspier than he remembered.

Spencer’s confidence spiked when he watched Derek’s half-lidded eyes fly open, a shocked but delighted grin blooming on his face as he reached over to place his glass back on the table. Each movement was dictated by a flirtatious mixture of mischief and desire if his dilated pupils or the almost imperceptible shift of his legs told Spencer anything. That behavior emboldened Spencer further.

Before the man could get a snarky word in edgewise, Spencer lazily pressed a finger along Derek’s jaw, turning his face back to the TV. “Eyes on the game.” 

Derek swallowed and immediately leaned forward towards the TV, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his hands together. He kept his eyes firmly on the game, his jaw clenched, but Spencer watched as his knee started to bounce with restless energy. It almost looked like he was anxious, but Spencer knew Derek too well – he knew when the man was containing excitement, raw anticipation.

Surprisingly eager to follow orders, isn’t he?

Spencer chuckled quietly, eyes drifting lazily along Derek’s bouncing form.

“To answer your original question before you got so sidetracked,” Spencer said airily as he leaned back, “No lower surgery for me.”

“So that means you’ve still got the stuff you were born with, right?” Derek asked, eyes flicking back.

Spencer chuckled. “I do. I’ve still got the full set, so to speak.”

Spencer reached up and delicately traced his fingers up and down the top of Derek’s spine, pleased when he felt the man shiver beneath his touch.

“Does everything…y’know…” Derek mumbled, making vague gestures with his hands, “Work?”

“Now who’s the shy one?” Spencer teased. He tilted his head back to the TV when Derek turned around to retort. “Keep watching.”

Derek turned back to the game with an annoyed huff that didn’t match his mischievous grin and his ceaseless anticipatory fidgeting.

Emboldened by how easily Derek had obeyed his demands, Spencer lazily spread his thighs apart, draping one over the arm of the sofa and moving his fingers up and down the exposed skin with the same rhythm as the fingers along Derek’s spine. The sultry voice in his mind urged him to keep Derek stimulated, to dial him up and drive him crazy. He observed with keen interest as Derek’s eyes immediately latched onto the movement, his pupils dilating despite the television's brightness. 

“Fuckin’ tease,” the man muttered under his breath, so soft Spencer would have missed it if he wasn’t already observing Derek’s behavior like an ambush predator.  

“What was that?” Spencer asked through a smirk, fingertips grazing the back of Derek’s neck. Derek arched his neck into the touch ever so slightly.

“Nothing,” Derek replied too quickly, “You didn’t answer my question, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. That damn name again. He had said it in a low, dark tone, like thunder rumbling in the distance. He said it like he knew it would drive the younger man insane. Spencer’s heart floundered in his chest, a quick tempo that got even quicker when he felt the anatomy in question stir to life in his boxers at the sound of it.

But it didn’t scare him. 

“Are you asking if I can get pregnant?” Spencer shot back, his tone playful but his brazenness quite calculated.

Spencer watched as Derek’s throat bobbed, his tongue swiping out to lick dry lips. Spencer tilted his head at him when the man turned his head a fraction of an inch. The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitched upwards, the oversized t-shirt slipping down his shoulder until his finely carved collarbone was visible in the low light. He watched Derek struggle to take a slow breath in an attempt to stay calm, but his gaze remained transfixed on the milky skin of Spencer’s inner thigh.

Instead, he gave an airy shrug. “Can you?”

Why don’t you find out?

That spark in Spencer’s eye intensified as he stretched out, letting his thighs fall open further and lean into Derek’s bouncing knee as his mouth twisted in a low smirk. “Why do you want to know so bad, Derek?”

Derek squeezed his eyes shut, lips barely moving as he seemed to mouth a soft prayer. He minutely pressed his legs together before copping a smirk. “Answer the damn question, Spencer.”

Spencer chuckled, trying to ignore how Derek’s bouncing leg shook his own and sent tiny jolts of pleasure through his core. “No. Even if I hadn’t been on T for as long as I have been, I got my tubes tied right after I joined the Academy.”

Derek’s leg stopped bouncing, and his brow furrowed. “Oh wow, really?”

“Yeah, that’s how I got this scar,” Spencer hummed, slowly lifting his shirt to reveal a small, almost imperceptible mark on his lower abdomen.

“I thought you said that was from when you had your appendix removed,” Derek replied, still only glancing out of the corner of his eye.

“I wasn’t technically lying,” Spencer said cheekily, popping the elastic band of his boxers, “I got appendicitis about two months after joining, and I asked for tubal ligation while they were in there.”

“That’s good,” the man said after whistling at the sight of the scar, “What’s ‘T,’ though?” 

“Short for testosterone,” Spencer replied, not bothering to pull his shirt down.

His brow furrowed when he saw Derek’s eyebrows shoot up, his gaze turning towards the kitchen. 

“Oh, speaking of! You had some ready at the pharmacy,” he said brightly, quickly rising and hurrying to the kitchen before Spencer could react. 

Spencer growled under his breath – leave it to Derek to get distracted right when Spencer was about to pin him to the sofa and straddle him. Instead, he rose to follow, heart thumping at the dampness spreading in his boxers and the dread of what was in the bag in Derek’s hands. 

When Spencer made his way to the kitchen, he saw Derek standing firmly behind one of Spencer’s mismatched dining chairs. Conveniently, the chair’s broad back blocked the view of his legs from the waist down. His leg was still bouncing. 

He smiled as he shook the bag in question, seemingly not daring to move. 

Spencer tilted his head, leaning against the table as an airy smile lit across his face. “Why are you hiding behind the chair?”

Derek gave a shaky chuckle and dropped his gaze, busying his hands by opening the bag and fishing out the vial. “I’m not hiding.”

“Oh really?’ Spencer drawled, jumping up to perch on the table with his knees spread.

Derek’s gaze fixed on his thighs again, his eyes unfocused and his hands stilling. “Y-Yeah.”

Who knew the infamously flirtatious, confident Derek Morgan would be such a stammering, nervous man when faced with someone who actually flirted back?

“Come over here then,” Spencer hummed, “Look me in the eye when you’re talking to me.”

Derek snorted, placing the medicine on the table within Spencer’s reach. “You can barely make eye contact with me as is.”

Spencer clutched at his chest and mimed a slapping motion to his face. “Ouch.”

“Aw, poor baby,” Derek cooed, gripping the chair and leaning forward like a lion wanting to escape its cage, “Want some ice for that burn?”

“Shut up,” Spencer hissed with an affectionate roll of his eyes, “I have far more interesting things to look at besides your eyes anyway.”

Derek’s eyebrows shot up, his fingers drumming the wood with restless energy. “Like what?”

Spencer’s gaze dropped to the chair for a few calculated moments before grinning at Derek playfully. “Like what you’re still hiding behind that fucking chair.”

Derek merely gaped at him, stunned, his knuckles going pale where he squeezed the chair.

“Aw, what?” Spencer hummed, spreading his thighs invitingly, “Is all that flirting you always do just a show? Too scared to actually act?” 

“No, ” Derek spluttered, clenching his jaw and narrowing his eyes.

Spencer’s sultry smile grew wider, all gritted teeth and mounting impatience. “Then get over here. ”

Derek’s breathing was shaky, and his eyes were filled with unbridled lust. But he remained still, as if locked in place. Spencer tilted his head. He saw a flicker of doubt in Derek's face, an earnest glint in his eyes as he locked gazes with him. 

Derek’s tone was unusually quiet, almost shy. “...Are you sure?”

It was a soft question, one borne of the concern Spencer had come to adore in the man. Spencer knew him well enough to interpret his question: Are you sure you want this?

“I’ve never been more sure in my life,” he replied softly, giving Derek an encouraging grin and patting the table between his legs. 

And Derek knew him well enough to understand his response for what it was: Yes, I want this. I want you.

He didn’t need to be asked again. 

He slowly stalked over, each movement as lithe as a snake. Spencer’s eyes immediately dropped, practically purring in approval as he saw the prominent bulge straining against Derek’s sinfully tight jeans. He gave a shaky laugh when Derek slotted himself between his spread knees and braced himself on either side of Spencer’s thighs, brows set and eyes dark with arousal. 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Spencer breathed, looping his fingers through Derek’s belt loops and pulling him closer, his thumbs tracing the cool metal buckle, “Though it looks like something else is, huh?”

Derek’s breath hitched when Spencer’s hand slithered downwards. Spencer palmed the bulge for a brief, experimental moment, grinning with half-lidded eyes as Derek dropped his head into his neck and shuddered. The man gritted out a muted groan that vibrated across Spencer’s neck and shoulder as he slowly rubbed, the sound sending a visceral thrill down his spine and heat pulsing in his core. He could feel Derek’s hips quivering as if he was desperately trying to hold back.

“I knew you were one mouthy little bitch, but have you always been this damn flirtatious?” Derek growled in a low voice, dark eyes narrowed as he looked up, his face inches from Spencer’s own.

Spencer shot him a perky smile, resting his hands on Derek’s waist. “Yes. I keep telling you I’m not nearly as innocent as you think.”

“Clearly,” Derek growled in a gravelly voice.

Spencer swallowed sharply, too focused on the pulsing ache between the legs and the fact Derek’s hard-on was only inches away from him. He blinked in amazement. He had gotten him so worked up like that. 

“Y’know what I think?” Derek breathed, his strong hands roaming to Spencer’s hips.

“What?” Spencer asked, his tone strained when Derek’s fingers traced his sharp hipbones. 

“I think you’re nothing but talk,” Derek purred through half-lidded eyes, crowding closer and licking his lips, “I think you’ve been running that pretty little mouth of yours just to rile me up.”

He leaned closer, breath hot against Spencer’s ear, “But I think you’ll fold the second I start talking about how much I want to pin you against this table-”

He placed a harsh, heavy hand high up on Spencer’s thigh, squeezing the slight muscle with almost bruising force.

“-and fuck you so hard you won’t even remember your damn name.”

Spencer let out a strangled noise. His cunt throbbed, a second, rapid-fire heartbeat forming deep in his groin. 

He reached out and linked his arms loosely around Derek’s neck, his voice hardly above a whisper as his lips wisped against Derek’s ears. “Then prove yourself right and fucking do it. ”

Derek chuckled low and deep but leaned back. Spencer huffed out a disappointed sound, arms falling to his lap. “Not before you take your medicine.”

Spencer paused. A crushing feeling filled his stomach and punched the air out of his lungs. “Are you serious?”

Derek nodded with a cheeky grin as he held up the vial.

Spencer slammed a fist on the table and looked to the ceiling. “You stupid fucking son of a-”

“Language, baby,” Derek chirped, dodging when Spencer tried to snatch at his waist, “You’ve got quite a dirty little mouth, huh?”

Spencer growled and pinched the bridge of his nose, gesturing to the vial. “You know that’s not, like, an aphrodisiac, right?”

“Oh, I know,” Derek purred, handing Spencer the medicine, “You were just getting a little too cocky. Had to knock you down a peg.”

“No, I’m not getting enough cock at the moment, actually.” Spencer bit back, fixing him with a heated glare.

Derek let out a shocked laugh, brushing a lazy finger along Spencer’s jaw. “Aw, getting cranky?”

“No,” Spencer hissed, tearing open the vial’s packaging with his teeth and observing with a wicked grin as Derek’s gaze fixated on the movement, “Just very, very worked up.”

“How do you think I feel?” Derek laughed, “I’ve wanted to jump you the second we sat down on the couch.”

Spencer’s head fell back as he groaned, his eyes squeezed shut as his brain pictured Derek’s hypothetical scenario. Derek pinning him to the sofa, straddling him with those powerful thighs, his big, strong hands pulling Spencer’s boxers down-

 “Just shut up and get the first aid kit out of my medicine cabinet, now,” he hissed. 

“So demanding,” Derek purred, turning and doing as he was asked. Spencer watched him go with hungry eyes.

Spencer lightly bounced on the table, the energy and heat thrumming in his core becoming almost unbearable. He listened impatiently as Derek picked through his medicine cabinet, a harried growl punching through him the longer he waited. As if with a mind of its own, his hand moved to his damp boxers. He keened when his fingers traced along the seam, the fabric already soaked with slick. He leaned his head back and bit his lip, eyes falling closed as he rubbed.

“Now ain’t that a pretty sight,” Derek breathed, placing the first aid kit on the table and putting his hand on Spencer’s thigh, crowding up against him. 

“You could’ve been seeing much more by now if you weren’t always so damned worried about my wellbeing,” Spencer growled, hand stilling but remaining in place.

“I can’t help it that I love you,” Derek purred, leaning forward to peck a kiss on Spencer’s forehead before moving out of reach of Spencer’s greedy hands. 

Spencer’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t help a small blush and a smile, one that Derek returned for a brief moment before his wicked eyes darkened with lust. 

Spencer let out a choked moan when Derek pulled his hand away and replaced it with his own, the weight of his hot, coarse fingers brushing against his clothed cunt sending shuddering thrills up his spine. His hips instantly bucked into the grip, and he clung to Derek’s shoulders when the man slowly rubbed a finger up and down the seam. Pleasure rippled up his spine in short bursts when Derek circled his hardening clit, leaving desperation in its wake. His head fell against Derek’s chest, his breathing ragged.

“See?” Derek breathed in his ear, “Folded right away.”

“I hate you,” Spencer snarled, sinking his blunt nails into Derek’s shirt the more the man rubbed against his aching cunt.

“No, you don’t,” Derek chirped, pulling his hand away and smirking when Spencer hissed at its absence, “Take your medicine.”

Spencer grumbled a series of vile curses Derek had never heard him use before as he scrabbled through the medicine kit, tossing items aside and pulling out a cotton ball, some disinfectant, and a band-aid. Derek’s skillful fingers teased along his thighs, kneading and pinching at the sensitive skin. Spencer managed to fill up the syringe with surprisingly steady hands and paused, eyeing it apprehensively as a flicker of fear made itself known between his arousal.  

Realization dawned on Derek’s face. “How do you take this if you don’t like needles?”

“With great difficulty,” Spencer snorted bitterly, scrubbing a hand over his face and pushing Derek aside, “Move. I need to wash my hands.”

He knew Derek followed him to the sink – his presence felt like a ball of blazing heat that honed in on him wherever he went. He gasped softly when Derek slotted up behind him, grabbing his hips and pressing a heated kiss to his nape, his warm tongue swiping across the skin Spencer hadn’t realized was so sensitive. Spencer uttered a soft, shaky sigh as his eyes fluttered closed, tilting his neck to the side in invitation. Derek took it faster than lightning, laving his tongue along the side of Spencer’s throat through unsteady panting, his hands roaming down Spencer’s stomach.

Spencer uttered a low groan when Derek’s hands traveled ever lower. How is this even real?

“Mnn…You’re making it very difficult to concentrate on this stupid fucking task you imposed on me,” Spencer hissed as he lathered his hands in soap, his voice trailing off into a gasp when Derek slowly ground his hips against him, his fingers dipping along Spencer’s clothed heat as he slowly kissed and nipped along his neck. Spencer let out a soft moan, bracing his sudsy hands against the sink and ignoring the running water to focus on the steady strokes of Derek’s finger against his heat.

“How so?” Derek hummed in his ear.

Spencer’s knees felt weaker with each calculated press and caress, hardly able to stand. He leaned down to prop himself on his elbows so he could rinse off the soap, a small whine escaping him when Derek’s insistent finger rubbed tighter circles along his aching clit. Derek followed him as he leaned forward, his stomach flush with Spencer’s elegantly curved spine. He braced his free hand beside Spencer’s and continued his heated ministrations against Spencer’s cunt, lipping at the top of his spine until the man’s head fell forward, his forehead thunking against the edge of the sink.

Spencer’s breaths came in harried groans he pushed through gritted teeth. “Because all I can think about is you getting your head out of your ass, bending me over this stupid sink, and fucking me senseless.”

A satisfied smile crossed his face when he heard Derek faintly groan and felt him roll his hips against him, seemingly unconsciously. 

“A very tempting concept, baby,” Derek hummed in his ear, his voice noticeably strained, “But you need your medicine.”

Spencer ground back against him, biting back a moan when Derek rubbed his cunt harder in response. “No, what I need is to feel your cock in me. Now. ”

He yelped when Derek yanked him up by the shoulders, bodily turned him around, hoisted him up, and deposited him back on the table. “Take your fucking medicine, and I promise you you’ll get just that.”

“Fine,” Spencer hissed, shaking water droplets off his hands. 

“Hurry up,” Derek growled in response, forcing Spencer’s thighs apart so he could slide between them again. 

Spencer grinned and swabbed his leg with disinfectant, his smile faltering as he fiddled with the syringe. He held it poised above his thigh like a knife, the plump bead of liquid at the tip shining in the fluorescent light. He could feel Derek watching him as he tried to take deep, calming breaths, but nothing came out but raspy wheezing.

Spencer froze when Derek knelt down, his fingers suddenly much more soothing as they rubbed his shaking knee. “Can I do it?”

Derek’s question was sweet and innocent, a gesture conceived of kindness and care, but Spencer was a hungry man living in a body that betrayed his mind’s laws. Seeing that beautiful man on his knees at his feet conjured up heated images in Spencer’s mind, ones filled with hot tongues, swollen skin, and shiny, sticky slick clinging to stubble-

“Eat me out first,” Spencer dared in a breathy voice, hooking a finger under Derek’s firm jaw and tilting his chin upward, relishing the feel of the man’s stubble on his skin. 

Derek’s pupils dilated impossibly wider. “Jesus Christ, Spencer, where the hell have you been hiding all this?” 

Spencer merely winked in response, his tongue between his teeth. He could feel Derek’s Adam’s apple bob against his finger when the man swallowed. 

“Let me do it,” Derek insisted, wiggling his fingers at the syringe.

Spencer fiddled with the syringe with both hands as he spoke in a raspy voice, his tone teasing as he held the medicine just out of reach. “I don’t think you know how.”

“I know exactly how to eat someone out,” Derek responded smoothly, chuckling when Spencer playfully swatted at him.

“I meant you don’t know how to give shots,” Spencer replied, rolling his eyes, “But I think you knew that.” 

Derek winked through a dazzling grin and beckoned for the syringe, bracing himself with one hand on the table, his fingers grazing Spencer’s thigh. “I’ve got family with diabetes. I’ve done plenty of shots for ‘em. Can’t be that different.”

Spencer’s lips thinned in embarrassment as heartbeats pounded in his chest and groin, but he placed the medicine in Derek’s outstretched palm. “...Fine.”

Derek quickly washed his hands at Spencer’s behest. Spencer bounced his knees, the insides of his thighs suddenly chilled with Derek’s absence. With that chill came conflicted thoughts. On the one hand, he had just been dry-humping Morgan, his coworker, the same man he was mortified to have in his home just a week earlier. 

On the other hand, this was Derek, the man he loved, the same man who had kissed him in the hospital and had refused to leave his side when he was terrified in the lab. He was someone he couldn’t risk ruining a friendship with just because he was so pent up from months of yearning and days spent constantly supervised in the hospital. But he grew torn as he watched each of the man’s long, deft fingers move in smooth synchrony as they dipped in and out of the damp folds of the hand towel. 

Logic and lust were battling so viciously in Spencer’s mind he was amazed Derek couldn’t hear it. But maybe he felt it, for he placed a calming hand on Spencer’s bouncing knee before slowly tracing those fingers upwards, pushing Spencer’s boxers up to gain access to the slight thigh muscle there. His fingers dipped beneath the fabric, so close to directly touching Spencer’s pulsing cunt.

Higher, that greedy voice in the back of his mind demanded, Go higher.  

“Ready, pretty boy?” he asked, his voice low. 

Spencer looked back at him with hooded, unfocused eyes and blown pupils. He swallowed and gave a jerky nod, eyelids falling closed. “Drives me fucking crazy when you call me that.”

Derek chuckled. “I know. That’s why I use it.”

“So you’ve been the tease the whole time,” Spencer laughed, splaying his fingers as anxiety started to overtake him. 

“No, that’s you,” Derek replied with a hoarse growl, placing a kiss along the edge of his jaw, “Looking the way you do every fucking day. You have no idea how often and for how long I’ve thought about dragging you to some storeroom and fucking you senseless at work.” 

Spencer couldn’t hold back his groan, his splayed fingers retreating into fists. “Give me my medicine now, Derek.”

“Patience, baby,” Derek purred. 

Derek soothed him with quiet, encouraging mumbles when Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. He peppered soft, delicate kisses along Spencer’s temple when the needle efficiently pierced his skin, nuzzled into his nose into his hair when he pushed the medicine through. Before Spencer had even opened his scrunched eyes, he had removed the needle, and carefully placed the bandage over the wound.

“Oh, wow,” Spencer remarked in a shaky voice as Derek slowly massaged the area, “You are good at that. Thanks.”

Derek shot him that stupid, sultry grin, the one that set Spencer’s entire body ablaze. “I’m good at a lot of things, baby.”

Show me, that voice demanded, show me what you’re so good at.

Spencer swallowed, nerves sparking where Derek’s hand continued to rest on his thighs. He kept kneading the skin where he had given the shot, his other hand fluidly coming to rest on Spencer’s other thigh. Derek looked at him with a fire in his eyes, his mouth curved into a lazy, hungry grin. As soon as they made eye contact, Derek’s pupils dilated, his tongue swiping out to wet his lips, and god, did that make Spencer throb.

But Derek was right. As soon as the obstacles were out of the way, he was a scared mess, folding at the slightest breeze. Logic and desperation for clarity dealt him a harsh blow, as they were so wont to do. He curled his fingers around Derek’s wrists, holding those hands down firmly and seeking his gaze with an earnest expression.

“I…I think we need to talk,” he murmured, surprised at how low his own voice had gotten, “About us. Before anything happens.”

He expected Derek to groan and bite out some complaint disguised as a sultry remark, but his heart throbbed when the man merely nodded, stroking his thigh comfortingly and looking at him earnestly. He was constantly checking on him, always prioritizing his comfort over their flirtatious games. 

“Back at the hospital and, y’know, a few minutes ago, you said…you said you loved me,” Spencer said quietly, gripping Derek’s wrists harder, his gaze searching.

“I did,” Derek murmured with a gentle grin, “And I meant it. Still do.”

Spencer gritted his teeth. He hated how Derek could say the most emotionally-charged things he had ever heard in his life with such ease, like they were pure, objective fact.

“That’s what confuses me,” he bit out, slowly releasing Derek’s wrists by running his fingers up the man’s toned forearms, “How exactly did you mean it?”

He let out a shuddering breath when one of Derek’s hands explored its freedom and ghosted higher, warm fingers kneading small circles into his inner thigh. The other rose to cradle the junction between his hip and waist, thumb directly on his sharp hipbone. Spencer swallowed sharply, body and heart both screaming for attention. The man was staring at him with half-closed eyes and a cocked eyebrow that silently urged him to elaborate.

“Did you mean it platonically or romantically?’ Spencer asked, roaming fingers tracing past Derek’s curved biceps before digging into his broad shoulders. 

Derek rolled his eyes and laughed, shaking his head. “Seriously? You have to ask that?”

“It’s an important distinction!” Spencer cried indignantly, “Because if it’s the latter…well…”

He trailed off as Derek rose and snaked his hand under Spencer’s shirt, using those nimble fingers to brush against Spencer’s stomach, his fingertips slowly exploring the trail of fine, downy hairs leading away from his navel and down towards his shamelessly aching heat. Spencer dug his nails into the exposed flesh near Derek’s collar, not sure if he was unable or unwilling to hold back the low groan simmering in the back of his throat. And that bastard grinned, the rough pad of his thumb swiping against Spencer’s lower lip as he cupped his freshly shaved cheek, his eyes gleaming as he felt Spencer’s hot, panting breaths warming the sensitive skin of his wrist. Spencer’s wide eyes met his as he slowly leaned forward.

“Which do you think it is, genius?” Derek breathed, cocky eyebrow raising with the confidence of a man who knew what he was doing. That blatant confidence made something prickle in Spencer’s chest, his feistiness to Derek’s brazenness. It was clear Derek thought he was slowly undoing him, and Spencer was aching to subvert those expectations. Those delicious personality clashes and subverted expectations were what had drawn them to each other in the first place.

He let his eyelids lower and his grin rise. His turn to tease. He wrapped his elegant legs around Derek’s waist, urging the man closer until their torsos were flush against one another. He slid his slender hips forward until he felt Derek’s erection pressing against the junction of his groin and his thigh. He smirked when he felt Derek quiver around him, the man’s eyes widening with an enticing mixture of shock, delight, and desire.

“I think I know which one it is now,” he hummed.

Derek chuckled, leaning ever closer. “Good.”

Spencer tilted Derek’s jaw up with an elegant finger, flitting his gaze to the man’s lips and speaking in a low voice. “Derek, you know there’s a million reasons why we shouldn’t do this.”

Derek’s wandering hands stilled, and his dark eyes found Spencer’s instantly. His bravado wavered, melting into a delicate mixture of care and raw hope. “But…?”

“But I don’t fucking care,” Spencer hissed, his breath ghosting over Derek’s lips as he moved his hand to the back of Derek’s neck, “Do you?”

Derek instantly shook his head, his voice breathy. “Can I…Can I kiss you?”

Like you even have to ask.

“Please,” Spencer groaned, his exhalation cut off as Derek surged forward and kissed him like he had been holding back for millennia. 

Despite the lustful heat filling the air like thick steam, Derek kissed him with utter reverence, hands rising to cup Spencer’s cheek. Spencer gave a small, content hum, moving his lips gently against Derek’s and relishing their plush warmth. His heart swelled, unused to being treated with such love when the promise of sex was so delightfully in reach.

They pulled back to breathe, resting foreheads against each other and seeking each others’ gazes. Spencer smiled softly, holding Derek’s wrist before initiating another kiss. This time, neither could fight back their desire, and the kiss deepened when Derek swiped his tongue against Spencer’s lips. Spencer tilted his head, tasting smoky spices and curry as Derek filled the kiss with smooth strokes of his tongue.

Their hands roamed, scrabbling over clothing and flesh, looking for purchase as they caressed and kneaded thighs, waists, hips, and arms. Spencer felt like he had been lit on fire – his face and neck had become a pretty pink, flushed with desire. He groaned into Derek’s receptive mouth when the man grabbed his hips and pulled him impossibly closer.

“Spencer,” Derek gasped, his voice wrecked as his hands roamed restlessly, like he needed to make sure Spencer was real.

“If you try and make me wait one minute longer, I swear to fucking God -” Spencer snarled, his voice breaking into a soft moan as Derek ground his straining bulge directly against his clothed heat. Derek stole his mouth into a heated kiss, tugging Spencer’s hair to change the angle and deepen it. The lightest graze of friction against his wet folds sent waves of heat billowing through his body. He crushed his legs around Derek’s waist and ground against him in turn with one sure, targeted thrust. Derek groaned, a strangled, passionate thing, and sloppily kissed around Spencer’s pleased grin.

They only pulled apart when the need for air crowded out their lust. Spencer licked his kiss-swollen lips, breathing heavily and observing how Derek’s eyes were mostly black, the faintest ring of brown surrounding his blown pupils. Spencer wagered his own eyes looked similar, drunk on the desperate arousal his already throbbing groin sent cascading through his shaking body. 

“I wanna do everything to you,” Derek groaned between sloppy, open-mouthed kisses, ones Spencer met with fervor, “Wanna use my hands, my mouth, my cock-”

“Then just fucking do it already!” Spencer nearly shouted, latching onto Derek’s neck and skillfully sucking a bruising hickey that had Derek groaning. He yanked on Derek’s shirt, and the man pulled away for a few breathless moments to toss the garment aside. 

“Bedroom,” Spencer panted, wide eyes drinking in the sight of Derek’s bare chest, “We’re gonna break this table if we - oh fuck! ”

Spencer yelped when Derek immediately scooped him up effortlessly from his thighs. The smaller man immediately clung to the agent, holding onto his neck almost as hard as his legs clung to his waist. Derek walked to the bedroom without breaking a sweat or catching his breath.

“I gotcha, pretty boy,” Derek purred soothingly in his ear before sucking a spot on Spencer’s neck. 

“Do I even weigh anything to you?” Spencer spluttered, needlessly ducking his head as they entered the bedroom. He grunted when Derek gently deposited him on the mussed sheets.

Derek smirked, watching as Spencer’s eyes locked on his hands as he swiftly undid his belt and shimmied out of his jeans. “No, not really.”

Spencer swallowed sharply, gaze fixed on the tent in Derek’s tight boxers with a primal mixture of lust and slight fear. “Am I gonna be able to walk after this?”

Derek climbed up the bed and straddled Spencer’s hips with those powerful thighs, grinning at him wickedly. “Depends. Do you want to be able to walk after this?”

For once, Spencer didn’t even need to think. “God, no.”

“Good,” Derek growled, gently tugging Spencer’s shirt up until he got the message and ripped it off himself. 

Derek’s eyes fell to Spencer’s binder, confusion flashing in his eyes for a second before catching his gaze questioningly. Spencer’s cheeks burned. 

“Derek, I-I don’t think I want to take this off, not this time,” he mumbled, thumbing the garment’s hem, “I’m sorry if that’s-”

He grunted in surprise when Derek tilted his face up and met him in a slow but passionate kiss. 

“Stop fucking apologizing, you big idiot,” he murmured gently when he pulled away, “We’ll never do anything you’re uncomfortable with. Ever, you hear me?”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile and giggle when Derek peppered his cheeks and chin with loving kisses. The scratch of his stubble was ticklish and intoxicating. 

“...I hear you,” he mumbled as he playfully shoved the man away, his cheeks reddening, “Same goes for you.”

Derek blinked down at him with a soft smile, dipping down to his elbows to press another kiss to his lips. “God, I love you so much, pretty boy.”

“...I love you too,” Spencer purred, pressing a soft kiss to the man’s cheek before breaking into a smooth smirk, “Now show me just how much.”

Derek lapped an open-mouthed kiss on his sensitive neck. “Oh, with pleasure.”

The man trailed lower and lower, skipping over the binder and laving his tongue over Spencer’s sensitive belly. He kissed at the small, streaking stretch marks, pecked at the intermittent mole, and licked down the fuzzy treasure trail leading from his navel. He grinned, drinking in the little gasps, giggles, and moans Spencer didn’t hold back as he did so. Spencer was sensitive - his skin twitched and jerked at each praising touch. 

Finally, he popped the elastic waistband of Spencer’s boxers, eyes questioning. “Can I-”

“Yes,” Spencer hissed, gasping when the damp fabric peeled away from his dripping cunt.

Derek didn’t even take the boxers off all the way before he kissed the mound of Spencer’s pubis, his nose disappearing in the fine brown curls littered there. He gazed at the wet, slick mess, his eyes hooded with arousal as he stared transfixed at Spencer’s large, erect clit.

Spencer went red as he averted his gaze. “...It’s different, I know.” 

“It’s you,” Derek said in a husky voice, his hot breath ghosting over it, “So it’s beautiful . ” 

Spencer blushed, a biting feeling pulsing deep in his chest at the man’s insistent affirmations. He was still envious of how Derek could lay his feelings bare and raw without a care in the world, without realizing how much it had torn down the walls Spencer had erected around his heart. The man left soft, loving kisses along his thighs and stomach, moving closer and closer to his heat with those plush lips and hot mouth-

“W-Wait,” Spencer said, gripping Derek’s wrist.

“Do you wanna stop?” Derek asked, freezing immediately. 

“No. Well, yes, for now,” Spencer replied, face reddening as he closed his legs, “Sorry. I know this is probably awkward to ask now, but…Have you been tested recently?”

Spencer wished he had said something sooner, but he wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself without knowing. Now he really expected Derek to groan and give him a hard time for “spoiling the mood.” 

But the man continued to surprise him in the sweetest ways. 

Derek smiled gently and linked their fingers together, pressing featherlight kisses to Spencer’s knuckles. “You never have to apologize for setting boundaries with me, pretty boy.”

Spencer nodded, squeezing his hand and beaming at the sound of the name.

“But I just got tested last week. Clean as a whistle,” Derek responded.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Last week?” 

It was Derek’s turn to look sheepish. “...A few days after you woke up.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rose, his mouth forming a cheeky grin. “Oh, so you’ve been scheming, huh?”

Derek grinned. “You’re not the only one who likes to plan things.”

He placed a kiss on the thick tendon connecting his groin to his thigh, lightly nipping at the skin and grinning at the slight whimper Spencer gave. “What about you, pretty boy? You’ve been surprising me all night. Anything I need to know about?”

“Had a test a…year-ish ago, came back clean,” Spencer managed to croak out, keenly aware of how Derek’s hot, steamy breath ghosted against his tender, sensitive skin, “Haven’t been with anyone since.”

“Good,” Derek purred, gaze dropping sinfully lower and licking his lips like a starved wolf.

Spencer chuckled, tracing a finger along Derek’s jaw. “And what made you so sure I’d give in, huh?”

Spencer’s heart stopped when Derek paused, his gaze dropping as he swallowed. He gripped Spencer’s hand tighter.

“...Did I say something wrong?” Spencer asked, eyes widening.

“No!” Derek said, hurriedly pressing a kiss to his knuckles, “I was…I actually didn’t think we’d get this far.”

Spencer furrowed his brow. “You didn’t?”

Derek shook his head. “I thought…I thought I’d been misreading your signals, or maybe you’d not want me because of regulations. I wanted to get tested before just in case, but…I thought I’d chicken out.”

Spencer blinked. “Chicken out?”

Derek squeezed his hand and met his gaze with soft eyes, “I’ve never done this with someone I’ve cared about as much as I care about you. But this whole anthrax thing…it made me finally realize you’re the one I’ve been wanting and chasing all this time.”

He slowly moved up until they were face to face, a slight glint of fear hiding behind the affection in his eyes and his smile. “I know I talk a big game, but…I want to love you, Spencer, only you, in any way you’ll have me.”

He traced his thumb along Spencer’s cheek. “Guess I’m trying to say I don’t want you to think this is a fling. Sex with you could never be casual for me.”

He swallowed sharply, eyes dropping. “Nothing about you is casual to me.”

He grunted in confusion when Spencer reached up and cupped his face with both hands, eyes wide and sparkling. His smile swelled, those adorable dimples creasing his cheeks as he leaned up and stole Derek’s mouth into a slow, loving kiss that neither wanted to end.

“Derek, I’ve wanted you and wanted to love you for so long now,” Spencer whispered when he pulled back, their noses brushing, “I only wish it hadn’t taken a near-death experience to give me the courage to do something about it.”

He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Derek’s forehead. “All that to say, I love you, too.”

Derek smiled. “...I know.”

“Good,” Spencer said softly as his eyes fell closed, bumping their noses together as Derek nuzzled against him, “Never forget it.” 

They sank into a kiss, gently exploring their lips and tongues with a new sense of lust that had been blessed with loving reverence. Hands cradled faces and fingers caressed skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. But as quickly as their hearts raced, their actions turned passionate. Hands moved lower, and fingers dug half-moon marks into skin as their kisses grew sloppy and open-mouthed. Derek’s fingers dipped below, pressing gently through Spencer’s soft folds and coating them in the copious amounts of slick before swirling them around his clit in smooth circles. He kissed along Spencer’s sensitive neck, heart and body thrilling at the soft moans each movement elicited from Spencer’s throat. 

“Feel good?” Derek breathed as he trailed kisses lower and lower.

“Yes! ” Spencer gritted out, letting his thighs fall open, “Now fuck me before I get impatient and do it myself.”

“Now that I’d pay to see,” Derek gritted out, grinning lustfully as Spencer’s cheeks reddened furiously. 

God, who knew the quiet, reserved Dr. Reid would be such a loud, demanding partner in bed? Who else had heard this side of him, and why did that make nonsensical jealousy burn at the corner of Derek’s mind? How could Derek make sure he was the only one Spencer ever talked to like this for the rest of his life?

He had a good idea of how he could prove himself.

Spencer didn’t have time to retort before Derek buried his tongue into his plush, swollen folds and began to show him that he did, in fact, know how to eat someone out. Spencer was a greedy man, but Derek was starving . He slung Spencer’s legs over his shoulders and roughly spread his thighs apart before apologizing by gently laving his tongue over each fold and collecting the slick like a man starved. Spencer spluttered and gasped, overwhelmed by the softness and warmth of Derek’s skilled tongue.

He was slow and teasing, giving each fold and divot attention with the same expertise and precision as someone mapping out new, unexplored land. He tested different intensities and speeds, categorizing the correlations between the sounds Spencer gave and the movements he made. He opened his jaw as far as it could go, driven to give Spencer all he could offer like a man possessed. He flickered and licked, sucked and stroked, savoring the light, salty taste on his tongue. He never once dipped inside, opting to drink in the high-pitched whines Spencer gave when he teased the sensitive nerves at the entrance instead. 

Spencer’s chest heaved, drunk on the sensations and the realization that this was happening, that it was real and something Derek seemed to want as much as a lung wanted to breathe. His entrance twitched and throbbed when he gazed down – the sight of Derek’s strong hands braced on his thighs as he engorged himself on his cunt was almost as erotic as the ministrations of his nimble tongue.

But he never once gave a second of love to the twitching clit peering through the coarse patch of hair just above his nose. Spencer growled.

“My clit, Derek,” he hissed, “Suck my fucking clit. It’s really easy to find now, I promise.”

Derek slowly looked up after leaving a noisy lick against Spencer’s throbbing cunt, eyebrow cocked and his mouth curved into a grin. “Do you know how fucking hot you are when you’re all impatient and bossy?”

Spencer tried not to stare at the fine, sticky sheen of his own slick on Derek’s smirking mouth. How would he ever be able to look the man almost in the eye again without thinking of that, without picturing the silvery sheen of his own slick shining on his lips?

“I got you rock hard in under five minutes just by being impatient and bossy,” Spencer hummed shakily, a self-satisfied smile on his lips, “So, yeah, I think I- oh my God- ”

Derek kept razor-sharp eye contact as he greedily took Spencer’s aching clit into his mouth and gently suckled, licking and panting against it with soft persistence. The feather-light touches sent scorching arousal careening deep in Spencer’s core, coiling in his gut like a viper. Spencer could feel Derek’s snarky grin against his cunt as he let his head fall back against the pillow, his body shaking and his mouth wide open as he gasped and sighed. 

“Folded again,” Derek remarked, letting out a surprised groan that vibrated through Spencer’s entire body when Spencer snaked his hand down and pressed the man’s face back into his heat. 

Spencer writhed against the sheets, repeating a litany of swears and gasps that fell on Derek’s ears like a prayer. Derek’s tongue was everywhere, suckling and lapping up every drop of slick like it was the only water left on earth. He consumed his cunt like he was the grace of god, letting his desperate need to taste every inch of his man suffocate his lowly urge to breathe. He let out a pleased groan when Spencer bucked against his mouth, animal instinct winning out against whatever coherent thought Derek hadn’t fucked out of him yet. 

“Fuck, pretty boy, you taste so good,” Derek gritted out as he finally surfaced for air and gave his jaw a break, immediately replacing his mouth with fingers that gently tugged and pulled Spencer’s clit in a steady rhythm. Spencer smacked his hand against his mouth, letting out a heated moan that went straight to Derek’s dick. The delicious friction from Derek’s fingers fanned the fire raging deep in his gut. 

“Uh uh,” Derek reprimanded, tugging his arm away and jerking Spencer at that exact same intensity and grinning when Spencer thrusted upwards, “I wanna hear you.”

“Neighbors,” Spencer managed to gasp between his fingers, biting on his knuckle to suppress himself. 

Derek surged up and yanked the hand away to steal Spencer into a harsh kiss filled with tongue and teeth, his fingers still working the squirming man beneath him. He pulled away and fixed Spencer with a heated look. “Let them hear.”

That unlocked something in Spencer. He let out a filthy, full-throated moan that went muffled when Derek pulled him into another searing kiss and jerked him harder, the taste of Derek’s spit and his own release like ambrosia on his tongue.

But Spencer tensed when Derek’s fingers slowly descended towards his fluttering entrance. Derek, ever so fixed on his behavior, immediately paused and met him with a searching gaze. 

“No fingers,” Spencer growled. 

“At all?” Derek asked, moving his hand away immediately, “We don’t have to do anything inside. I’d eat you out all night long if you let me.”

“Very tempting, but no,” Spencer purred, pressing on Derek’s hand until the man continued stroking, “I have a very specific plan for tonight.”

“Of course you do,” Derek puffed, rolling his eyes and kissing the corner of his mouth.

Spencer grinned, kissing him before speaking in a raspy voice. “First, I want you to make me cum with your mouth.”

He ran his hands down Derek’s back, giving the man’s ass a slight squeeze before rolling his hips to grind against Derek’s bulge. “After that, I want you fuck me for real. Hard. Like you promised.”

He placed gentle, feathery kisses on Derek’s cheeks, his sweet smile in sharp contrast to the filthy demands Derek had a hard time believing were coming from Spencer’s lips. “Think you can do that for me?”

Derek nodded dumbly, jaw slack as he panted like a hungry wolf. “Y-Yeah, I can do that. Anything you want.”

Spencer lightly nipped at his shoulder, his warm tongue soothing the skin afterward. “Good.”

Derek moved back down, a hungry smirk on his lips. “Inside isn’t off limits though, right?”

Spencer furrowed a brow. “No, it’s fine. Penetrative sex doesn’t make me dysphoric.”

Derek smirked. “Perfect.”

Before Spencer could question him, Derek had sank back below and slipped his tongue inside, grinning when Spencer groaned. Spencer tried to hold his hips still when Derek fluttered the tip of his tongue hardly an inch inside, exploring the wet, cavernous heat with fervor. He flickered like this for a few moments until Spencer whined. 

“More,” he groaned, “Give me more. ”

Derek, so eager to please, plunged his stiffened tongue in further, bobbing his head so his nose brushed against Spencer’s clit. Spencer’s fingertips went white where he was clinging to Derek’s head, dizzy at the nimble feel of his tongue splitting him open and the intoxicating scratch of his stubble rubbing against tender flesh. 

“God, just like that,” Spencer slurred, “So good.”

Derek practically purred against him, reaching up to jerk Spencer’s clit in between his thumb and forefinger with the same aching pressure and precision as his tongue. Even though he wasn’t using just his mouth, Spencer didn’t have the brainpower to tell him off. The combination of mouth and fingers was pure bliss. Each movement had him squirming, his skin shining with a fine sheen of sweat. Spencer squeezed his thighs against Derek’s ears, panting, sighing, and swearing as the flame in his gut cascaded into an unstoppable blaze. He knew this primal inevitability well, and Derek’s consistent, unchanging pace sent him hurtling towards it faster than he could think to breathe. 

He sobbed his partner’s name over and over like a prayer as he came, carnal pleasure ripping through him. Derek gave a deep, satisfied hum as Spencer’s powerful walls shuddered against his tongue, a string of incomprehensible vocalizations leaving Spencer’s mouth as he rode through his orgasm. 

Spencer’s chest heaved, eyes unfocused and hazy as he slowly came down. He gazed down at Derek through blissed-out, half-closed eyes when the man finally withdrew. Derek pulled away with a wet noise and a gasp as he sucked in air, smiling with his glistening tongue hanging between his teeth. Spencer was totally transfixed on how his own slick and Derek’s spit clung to the man’s mouth in thick, sticky strings when he pulled away. Derek’s beard was a sticky, shiny mess, and Spencer felt his cunt already clench with want when the man’s tongue swiped out to taste him on his lips.

“One down, one to go,” Derek purred, and Spencer wanted to kiss the stupid, sultry grin right off his face.

Instead, he flexed his shaking legs and smirked. “I can still walk, so you better get to it.”

Derek chuckled, low and deep before rising to kiss him. “Is that a challenge?”

Spencer reached behind him to grab a pillow and propped it under his hips, letting his thighs fall open, grinning lazily as Derek seemed to drool at the sight. “Damn right it is.”

Derek moved up and kissed the grin off his lips, groaning softly when Spencer’s hands immediately traced along his back, his elegant legs holding unexpected strength as he hooked them around Derek’s waist to press him closer.

Derek pulled back, gasping for air. “Condoms? Lube?” 

Spencer grunted as he reached for the nightstand and withdrew a half-empty bottle of lube from the messy drawer.

“Don’t need condoms,” he panted as he pointed to his scar, pupils dilating as he spoke, “I’m sterile and we’re both clean, remember?”

Derek hesitated. “Well…what if you get a UTI or something?”

Spencer grabbed the back of Derek’s neck and pulled him close, eyes filled with fire. “If a meager little UTI is the price I have to pay to feel you cum in me, then it is well worth it.”

He smiled when he heard Derek’s breath catch sharply and hummed when he saw Derek’s dick twitch in his boxers. The doubt left his eyes with every word Spencer said.

“I want this, Derek. I want you,” Spencer murmured, leaving a soothing kiss on Derek’s cheek and reaching for the waistband of his boxers, “Please.”

Who was Derek to deny such a request?

Derek nodded enthusiastically and rose to wiggle out of the boxers, preening as Spencer watched each of his movements with a hungry grin and dilated, aroused pupils. Those eyes widened when Derek’s member finally slipped free, a bead of pre-come already glistening on the plump tip. Spencer’s mouth watered, the burning ache in his groin roaring to a blaze as he took every detail in. He looked up at Derek with glazed eyes as he tossed the boxers away and knelt before him, completely nude with an adonic build and a thick, throbbing cock that rivaled some of the larger toys Spencer kept in that bedside drawer. He didn’t realize his jaw was slack until he grinned. 

“Who knew all I had to do was get naked to finally make the chatterbox lost for words?” Derek chuckled, slotting himself between Spencer’s thighs and bracing his hands on either side of Spencer’s slim shoulders. Spencer shivered when he felt the heavy member rest atop his pubis, his cunt twitching and throbbing in anticipation mere inches below. 

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Spencer growled, crowding him closer with his thighs and grabbing at the attractive V of his hips like a thief. 

“Let me at least warm you up a little,” Derek murmured, kissing the column of his neck and parsing his fingers through the thatch of brown hair at Spencer’s groin.

He let out a grunt of confusion when Spencer swatted him away with a harried snarl. “No need.”

He barely had a moment to breathe before Spencer drizzled the slick lube onto his lithe fingers and wrapped them around his thick cock, humming when Derek choked out a moan when he gave him one good, long stroke. Derek sank onto his elbows, hand reaching for Spencer’s free hand, the one that wasn’t occupied with sending bolts of pleasure coursing through his body with each languid movement. 

“I-I don’t wanna hurt you,” Derek gasped, gritting his teeth as he willed his hips to still when Spencer finally finished stroking and grabbed him at the base.

Spencer merely snorted and guided the tip to his plush folds, swirling it through the fresh slick. “Stop worrying about me.”

“I will never stop worrying about you,” Derek replied, biting back a moan as Spencer coated his cock with slick.

The man’s brown eyes blazed. “I said- ”

He pushed his slender hips forward and grinned wickedly at the low whine Derek released as he slid the tip inside, the scalding heat giving away with sinful ease. “- Shut up and fuck me. ” 

Derek followed Spencer’s demands, the call of his instincts, and the greedy pull of Spencer’s body like a chosen disciple, giving one slow thrust of his hips. His head was spinning – he shuddered at the warm, wet, velvety heat encasing him on all sides, Spencer’s powerful muscles pulsing and twitching as he took him inch by inch. He watched Spencer’s eyes flutter closed, his grinning mouth going slack with a silent moan as Derek slowly slid all the way inside, his hand clawing for Derek’s. They squeezed each other’s fingers with equal strength and lay still like the calm before the storm, minds and bodies trying to grapple with the sheer closeness and sensation.

Move! Derek’s brain screamed at him, every muscle in his body shaking with anticipation. He groaned and kept his hips locked in place, searching Spencer’s ecstatic face for an indication to move forward. For some reason, he wanted, no, needed Spencer’s commands, needed him to take the reigns.

“F-Fuck,” Derek begged, his forehead dropping to Spencer’s chest, “Spencer, please- ”

“Move,” Spencer immediately ordered, grinding his hips forward.

Derek sealed Spencer’s mouth into a heated kiss and fucked into him with slow, languid thrusts, each movement into Spencer’s searing warmth sending sparks shooting up his spine and fire pooling in his gut. He breathed in Spencer’s air, inhaled his enchanting scent, tasted him on his lips, and heard his whispered words jumbled like an ancient prayer against his ear. He fucked into that hallowed heat with a reverence borne of gratitude and a requited love that had been saved scarcely a moment before death’s solemn scythe stole him away. His warmth was almost blinding, the friction of his velvety skin so good he could practically taste it again, and Derek knew he was lucky to be experiencing it. 

And while Spencer’s gasps and moans spoke of how he appreciated the worship, the man demanded idolization. He wanted Derek to break him, to pull his bones and viscera apart so he could slip inside and make a home alongside the cavernous altar of his aching heart, amongst the smoke of his lonely soul. A low, snarling voice chanted in the back of his mind, raving for every ounce of animalistic depravity their bodies could offer. He wanted to be taken fully and instinctually, to be kept wholly and unwaveringly.

Death and the stark realization of how lucky Spencer was to be alive had a funny way of making Derek fearfully worshipful and Spencer sinfully possessive.  

He dug his bony ankles into Derek’s lower back as he pressed him closer, suckling and kissing along Derek’s neck and grinning as the man grunted and groaned, eyes glazed over with pleasure.

“C’mon, Morgan, can’t you do any better than that?” he rasped, grazing Derek’s stubbly jaw with his teeth and groaning when he felt Derek immediately throb inside him, “I said I don’t wanna be able to walk after this. Don’t hold back.”

Derek paused, and when his fiery eyes narrowed, Spencer knew he had gotten what he wanted.

“Oh, so you wanna play it like that, huh?” Derek growled through a sly grin, voice low and searing.

Spencer grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, relishing how just his words could have such a direct and heated effect on the man.

“Snarky little bitch,” Derek grumbled under his breath before leaning in to take a chaste kiss, a shadow of desire clouding his eyes, “But I don’t wanna hear a peep when you’re achin’ tomorrow.”

Spencer snorted. “I’m not gonna-”

He cut himself off with a strangled scream when Derek finally pounded into him with the brutal strength Spencer needed, his powerful thighs flexing with each targeted thrust. His skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat, pearls of perspiration rolling down his temples as instinctual providence guided him to the speed and intensity that had Spencer babbling. The bed creaked and bounced, the headboard hitting the wall with each thrust. Neither cared, too focused on each other to notice. Through the roughness and blistering pleasure, they clung to one another, squeezing hands and kissing anywhere they could reach. 

Each frenzied rut fanned the flame deep in Spencer’s gut, doused the desperate, itching buzz that had festered beneath his skin since he woke in the hospital. It quenched his desolate thirst for closeness, soothed away his residual terror at the prospect of dying, and promised him he was fully alive and wanted. 

Each blissful thrust into that divine heat sent lightning through Derek’s spine and soothed his devastating need to care and protect. It slaked his parched desire for companionship, tamed the suffocating knot of panic that had constricted his lungs since he laid Spencer down in the ambulance, and promised him Spencer was alive and wanted him. 

With Derek, Spencer didn’t feel pinned, didn’t feel like he was a means to a primal end. Derek squeezed his hands and kissed him adoringly, serving his need to get railed out of his mind while showering him with the love and attention he so desperately craved. That knowledge alone made the heat in Spencer’s core coil and tighten as taut as a finger poised over a trigger, his heart hammering in his chest.

“‘S good?” Derek gasped out against Spencer’s neck, chasing the electric spark fritzing in his gut.

All Spencer could do was jerk his head in an endless nod, panting and moaning into Derek’s ear. Derek filled him so beautifully, stretching his cunt to that golden line between pain and pleasure with an artisan’s passion. Each movement had Derek’s cock sliding against his throbbing clit, sending pleasure cascading through them like fine wine. The pressure, the friction, the stretch – it chased away any stress his aching body still clung to and filled each crevice with molten-hot pleasure. He clawed at the man’s back with his free hand, not caring about the red marks he’d leave behind, and bit into the meat of his shoulder to muffle his moans of ecstasy, kissing the mark in an apology. But Derek took every bit of the manhandling like a call to prayer, fucking him with renewed fervor with each scratch and nip, moaning low and deep. 

“Oh my g-god - oh fuck, stay just like that,” Spencer gasped high and needy, air punching out of his chest at each powerful stroke, “Derek, I - fuck - ’m close, need more -”

Derek quickly extricated one of his hands from Spencer’s firm grip to jerk at his clit with the same intensity and speed as he fucked his cunt, and Spencer almost sobbed. The man adjusted his angle and started hitting Spencer square on that special spot his tongue had teased earlier. He growled in satisfaction when Spencer let out a high-pitched wail and arched his back, hips stuttering as he clawed for his pleasure. Delirium built in Spencer’s brain with the same hurtling speed as his ecstasy, pleasure burning his lungs and rendering him incapable of any form of coherent speech.

Derek listened to those sinful vocalizations and joined in a passionate harmony with low, deep groans, fighting back his lowly, burning need to cum in favor of fucking Spencer back to that inevitable precipice. He had to close his eyes lest the sight of Spencer’s slack jaw, blissed-out expression, and slender frame that slid up and down the mattress with each forceful fuck of his hips pushed him over the edge. But his heat, his scent, his touch, his sounds made it damn near impossible. He was too much. He was everything.  

Each movement was riddled with desperation and impatience, with a longing and panic unearthed from their brush with death. He clung to Spencer with urgent want, rolled his hips with desperate need, and caressed with unshakeable love. Derek begged and begged, fighting off the scalding inevitability in his gut and babbling incoherently as he prayed to get his partner off first, trying to stay at that same brutal pace Spencer needed without losing his mind. 

Every one of his senses could tell exactly when it finally happened. Spencer went as taut as a bowstring beneath him, eyes screwed up tight and kiss-swollen lips parting as the last bit of strangled air left his tight lungs and slid over his strained vocal cords. It was like he was frozen in a moment in time, completely silent and stiff before the velvety walls of his cunt violently shuddered and constricted around Derek like an unrelenting chokehold, babbles and swears cascading past his lips as he arched his back, grinding his hips deeply against Derek and sobbing his name over and over and over. It was enough to drive Derek absolutely insane, rutting on and on as he chased his own release, soothing Spencer with soft pets and caresses as he rode him towards overstimulation.

But to Derek’s surprise, even that orgasm didn’t seem to be enough for the man. Instead of going boneless, Spencer clung to him with desperation not even seconds after his pleasure ebbed, his nails raking against Derek’s back in a way that sent another unbearable flash of heat through Derek’s gut.

“God, keep going,” he gasped, squeezing Derek with his thighs and urging his hand back to his clit, “N-Need to feel you cum, please .”

Spencer’s words and actions hit him like a truck – the knowledge that the man that was writhing and groaning beneath him would derive pleasure just from Derek cumming in him, from Derek staking Spencer’s heat as his claim, was all he needed. His hips stuttered once, twice, until that sizzling heat erupted inside him like a riptide. His vision went dark as he squeezed his eyes shut, salty sweat on his tongue as he braced his teeth against Spencer’s bony shoulder. The man cried out beneath him, and Derek felt his walls flutter around him a second time moments after his shuddering cock emptied his load inside, cum mixing with slick and leaking out of Spencer’s folds with each disorganized thrust.

That Elysian glow washed over them like a sunbeam. If Derek asked, Spencer would probably be able to recite the exact chemical reactions going on in their minds – floods of oxytocin and other hormones that could easily explain why Derek wanted to hold Spencer in his arms and never let him go. But if Spencer asked, Derek would say the feeling was akin to pure, divine ecstasy, gifted to him by some force in the universe that finally decided to bless him with this beautiful man instead of burdening him with another harrowing trial. 

Derek withdrew slowly and dropped down beside Spencer so he didn’t crush him. He didn’t need to reach over and encourage Spencer to lay in his arms – the man scooched himself over and immediately laid his head over Derek’s heart, his hot, ragged breath leaving goosebumps where it wafted down Derek’s chest. Derek gave a happy hum, buried his nose into the tangled chestnut locks, and breathed in his familiar scent. He barely noticed he was kissing Spencer anywhere he could reach until a soft, sweet giggle reached his ears. They held one another, no longer desperate to assure themselves the other was there and real. 

Spencer’s eyes felt heavy as he listened to Derek’s consistently drumming heart, and he never wanted to lift his head again. His cunt was still twitching with pleasurable aftershocks, Derek’s hot cum leaking out of him with each movement. He heaved a happy sigh and merely pressed a lazy kiss to Derek’s sternum, snuggling close to his side. He felt safe in Derek’s arms, practically purring as his lover stroked up and down his spine. 

“That was…” Spencer slurred, “That was amazing.”

Derek’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, his fingers slowly carding through Spencer’s hair. “It was.”

“Y’alright?” Spencer mumbled, curling his hand on Derek’s pec, blinking heavily.

“I should be asking you that,” Derek chuckled softly, pressing another tender kiss to his hairline and gently rubbing his back, “Went a little crazy for a bit there, huh?”

Spencer chuckled. “Needed something grounding after…all that.”

His heart ached when Derek squeezed him tighter and laid his cheek on Spencer’s head, his heartbeat racing. “...Me too.” 

Spencer sleepily tugged on Derek’s wrist, smiling softly and heaving a sigh of relief when the man immediately linked their fingers together. Spencer rested their joined hands on Derek’s chest, his lips brushing Derek’s knuckles as his eyes fluttered closed.

“You falling asleep on me, pretty boy?”

“Mhmm,” Spencer mumbled, not even fighting back a yawn.

“We should clean up first,” Derek hummed reasonably, scratching Spencer’s back, “Shower with me?”

Spencer mumbled apologetically about not wanting to take his binder off in front of him yet, his smile soft and giggle sweet when Derek gently scolded him and smacked him with a pillow. One day, Derek would unravel the knot in Spencer’s mind that forced him to apologize for every damn thing, but he knew they had all the time in the world. They lay there for a few minutes longer, enjoying each other’s warmth and love.

Derek struggled to extricate himself from Spencer’s koala-like grasp, wanting to get them both cleaned up before they fell asleep in a sticky, crusty mess he knew Spencer would hate tomorrow. He tucked the blanket around Spencer’s half-asleep frame and kissed his cheek before pulling on his boxers. 

“...Are you leaving?” Spencer asked in a small voice. Derek turned to see those sleepy brown eyes fixed on him, his expression reproachful but resigned as he curled into a tight ball. 

Derek brushed the hair out of his eyes and tenderly kissed his forehead. “Of course not. Just getting you some water and a towel before I get a shower. OK?”

Spencer nodded, a peaceful smile on his face as he curled up on his side and closed his eyes. Derek quietly stole through the apartment, the bite of the AC drying the sweat on his skin into a salty crust. He poked around until he found a fluffy towel and filled a glass with cool water before returning to the bedroom. Spencer looked angelic beneath the covers, soft eyelashes fluttering as he tried to stay awake. He sat up and accepted the towel and water with a soft sigh of gratitude, his kiss-bruised throat bobbing as he gulped it down. He settled back down and gave Derek that big smile the man adored, the one that showed his dimples and creased his eyes. Derek stroked his hair for a few precious moments, his eyes soft and heart light as he stole another chaste kiss. He could live like this. He could find peace if he was allowed to watch Spencer fall asleep in bed with him every night for the rest of his life.

And he had a feeling Spencer would allow it. 

Derek showered quickly, not wanting to leave Spencer alone for any longer than he had to. He scrubbed off his worries and fears, leaving behind a fresh, clean slate and the overwhelming realization that he now smelled like Spencer after using his products. He wanted to carry that cinnamony scent with him for the rest of his days. 

He returned and managed to convince Spencer to shower, chuckling off one of Spencer’s ‘quit worrying about me’ comments when he saw the man’s appreciative grin and bashful smile. As the bathroom door closed behind him, Derek saw Spencer had laid out a fresh T-shirt and what were probably too tight shorts for him on the other side of the bed. He slipped them on and dug around until he found some fresh sheets, stripping the old ones away and making the bed up nice. He chuckled to himself as he remembered just how worried Spencer had been to have him in his bedroom weeks before. 

If Derek had his way, Spencer would never have to worry about anything like that with him again. 

Spencer emerged from the bathroom with a towel over his chest and torso just as Derek slid under the covers. Derek politely closed his eyes at Spencer’s behest, dozing off as he heard Spencer rustling through his dresser and pulling on clothes. Derek struggled to open his eyes when Spencer gave the all-clear. He smiled as he watched Spencer sluggishly make his way over to the bed, a baggy shirt billowing over his frame. Even through his groggy haze, he smiled when he saw Derek on the bed. 

“You changed the sheets,” he said softly, eyes gleaming.

Derek nodded, patting the spot beside him. “‘Course. Now get your skinny ass in bed before you keel over.”

Spencer needed no second bidding. He burrowed under the covers and snuggled up into Derek’s arms with a wide, sleepy smile. His skin was soft and warm, blushed pink from the shower. Derek smiled and leaned down to kiss him, so soft, sweet, and chaste, before reaching over and flicking off the light, bathing the room in gentle darkness.

Spencer laid his head back over Derek’s heart, comforted by the soft, repetitive sound. “Derek?”

“Hm?”  

“...Does this mean we’re dating now?” Spencer asked.

Derek’s chuckle rumbled deep in his chest. “I sure hope it does.” 

Spencer snuggled closer, a broad smile on his face. “Good. Just clarifying.”

Derek rolled his eyes fondly, stroking Spencer’s damp hair. “Go to sleep, pretty boy.”

Spencer hummed, adjusting himself for a minute or two until he was boneless against Derek’s side. His small voice was muffled against Derek’s chest. “‘Love you.”

Derek’s eyes fell closed as he smiled. “Love you too, bud.”

He tried to prolong this soft moment for as long as he could, but sleepiness weighed down his eyelids. Spencer’s weight felt heavier and heavier the longer he tried to fight off sleep, his fingers curling against Derek’s chest as his breathing eventually evened out. Sleep finally stole Derek away as soft snores gently passed Spencer’s lips, the two sinking into the most restful slumber they had had in years.

The next few days were filled with shared meals, engaging conversation during prescribed walks around the neighborhood, deflected texts from a nosy Garcia, and post-sex nights spent curled up against one another in Spencer’s bed. Each laughed at themselves internally – how had it only been a week or so ago when Spencer had been too paranoid to let Derek observe the apartment, much less share the same bed or see him almost fully naked? 

By the time they were called back to the office, each felt recharged in a way they didn’t realize was drained. Finally, they had unwavering support, a haven of domesticity and love that would keep them going as they plowed through their perilous lives.

Finally, they had found each other.

Chapter Text

“There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something better tomorrow.” Orison S. Marden

Spencer didn’t really expect much of his first day back at the BAU since the anthrax attack – probably quite a bit of paperwork and overbearing mothering from the team. But if he knew Hotch, he wouldn’t be allowed out on field missions for a while, or at least until his boss had quietly assured himself that Spencer wouldn’t crumble to dust before his eyes. 

He couldn’t convince Derek to let him take the bus to work like he usually did. The man, no, his boyfriend, had grown much more paranoid about his safety since the attack, something Spencer found both suffocating and endearing. He’d talk about it with him later – but for now, he was happy to sit in the passenger seat of the FBI vehicle and listen to Derek hoarsely sing 80s classics. 

Each breath of air with Derek at his side felt like his very first.

Spencer took a quiet role in their usual journey to the BAU. Derek was happy and more than capable of filling the silence with whatever crossed his mind as they mounted the steps outside Quantico. He had become much more engaged and animated – a noticeable happiness had permeated his behavior ever since they consummated their relationship. Knowing he could bring such joy to the man he had grown to love so fiercely warmed Spencer's heart.

Spencer traced his route with a content smile, each step filled with newfound gratitude. The crowded lobby he always hated picking through felt like a hug; the rickety ride up the elevator felt like a new adventure; the stubborn vending machine in the hall felt like a valuable treasure chest filled with morsels and trinkets for all occasions.

Most importantly, the view into the BAU felt like home. 

As he crossed the threshold with a genuine smile, he wondered if he, too, displayed his newfound happiness and contentment as brightly as Derek did.

The rest of the team immediately flocked around him, giving him their customary arm punches, hair tousles, and teasing. He looked into each of their bright faces with a soft smile. He had never appreciated them more than he did then. 

Once the team had trickled back to work, Spencer surveyed the remnants of the Defense Department's hostile takeover with a heavy heart. Desks and chairs were still shoved into strange places, and boxes and boxes of files sat uncategorized in the storeroom. He remembered the chaos the agents had wreaked on his carefully organized desk like a punch in the gut. 

He tossed his bag down with a sigh and dropped into his chair only to see his desk was…completely organized. Every item was back in its place. His office supplies were lined up in the correct order, and his file stack was angled towards him in the specific way he liked. Even the small trinkets he kept along the edge of his desk, like his Rubiks cube and his model of an electron, were mostly in the correct order. He swapped his Rubiks cube with a miniature model of Saturn and sat back, admiring whoever’s work had saved him a good half hour of rearranging. 

“Hey, who fixed my desk?” Spencer called across the way to Emily, who was sitting with her feet up on her desk with a mug of coffee in her hands, “It was a mess when I saw it last.”

She glanced over with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Your boy.”

Spencer blushed and flung a paper clip at her when she laughed. He felt no need to make excuses or lie because Derek certainly was his boy now. He couldn’t say that, but simply knowing was enough for him.

Spencer smiled when he felt a familiar hand tousle his hair, not bothering to bat Derek’s hand away as the man placed a steaming mug of coffee and a small bottle of cranberry juice fetched from the vending machine in front of him. 

“Sugar with a side of coffee,” he quipped with a grin, plopping into his own chair and pulling a stack of files in front of him. 

“Aw, how sweet of you,” he said dryly, smiling softly when Derek laughed at his pun, “Did you fix my desk?”

Derek nodded sheepishly. “I know you’re particular about how everything is situated and all, but I hope I did it justice.”

Spencer smiled. “You did perfect. Thanks.”

“No problem,” Derek replied, his smile soft and tender as he held Spencer’s gaze for a few precious moments before they returned to their work. 

Spencer gave a small, deflated sigh as he reached for his stack of files, grabbed a pen, and settled into work. He reached into his main drawer for his earbuds but was surprised to find a crisp, white envelope right on top, his name written in Derek’s smooth handwriting. It was surprisingly heavy for a letter. He glanced at the man out of the corner of his eyes, but he was too focused on his own work to look up.

Spencer quietly opened it and pulled out a small note, eyes darting across the page: 

Returning the favor - yours to keep. Come over whenever you like. Yours, D

Spencer tilted the envelope until a brand new, shiny house key fell into his palm. 

“What’s that, a love letter?” Emily teased, causing Spencer to jump.

“Yeah, you jealous?” Spencer quipped dryly, folding the message and stuffing it in his pocket.

“Nah, I’m good,” Emily replied, glancing up at JJ’s office with a grin.

Spencer caught Derek’s gaze when Emily walked away. He held up the key between his thumb and forefinger and mouthed thank you.

Derek winked and went back to his work with a smile. 

Emily met up with JJ and Garcia, who were talking in hushed tones outside Garcia’s office. They looked at her with gleaming eyes and mischievous smiles. 

“What are you gossip girls talking about?” she asked conspiratorially, leaning against the doorway. She was fairly certain she already knew the answer. 

“The loverboys out there,” Garcia confirmed immediately, her smile wide as she tilted her head towards their diligently working coworkers, “Do you think they finally got their heads out of their asses?”

Emily scoffed. “C’mon, have you seen them? 100%.”

“Right?!” the two exclaimed.

“I saw Reid pull a house key out of a letter with Morgan’s handwriting on it,” Emily whispered, “And Morgan has a new key on his keychain.”

Garcia gave a quiet squeal, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, they totally boinked then.”

“Duh,” JJ said, chuckling,  “They think they’re being subtle, but c’mon.” 

“It’s about time,” Emily huffed, “That sexual tension was so thick I could hardly breathe.”

“Back to work, please.”

Hotch chuckled to himself as he walked past, the three women immediately scattering like startled birds at the sound of his reprimand. But his mirth was short-lived – his expression fell as he dived back into his thoughts. He slowly mounted the bullpen stairs and made his way over to Rossi, who was leaning over the railing outside his office with a file in his hands.

“Good to have him back,” Rossi said instead of greeting him, tilting his head to Reid, who was laughing at some joke Derek was telling Emily when she returned to her desk. 

Hotch merely hummed in response.

Rossi didn’t even look up from his file. “Something wrong?”

Hotch rubbed his jaw. “I’ll have to talk to them.”

Rossi looked at Hotch out of the corner of his eye. The man’s arms were folded tightly against his chest, his normally stoic expression marred by a hint of sadness as he watched Morgan and Reid interact.

“What about?’ Rossi asked airily, observing the man’s behavior carefully.

Hotch inclined his head. “Surely you’ve noticed what I’ve been seeing.”

Rossi tsked, flipping through his file absently. “I have.”

“So you know I need to talk to them about it,” Hotch said quietly, his frown deepening but his gaze dropping to his feet, “We can’t have any fraternization on the team.”

Rossi heaved a long, heavy sigh, leaning heavily against the rail. His gaze flitted to the window into the briefing room, the gruesome pictures of their next case already displayed on the board. The team wandering the bullpen below them was encased in a joyous bubble that would pop at any moment. But for now, they were all smiles and jokes. 

“So why haven’t you already?” he asked. 

Hotch leaned his back against the rail and pinched the bridge of his nose. “...I don’t know.”

“I think I do,” Rossi said, closing his file.

Hotch rolled his eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“I think it’s because you’re noticing what I’ve been noticing,” Rossi replied quietly, nodding as Morgan and Reid’s laughter echoed in the bullpen, “When’s the last time you’ve seen either of them this happy?”

Hotch looked over his shoulder and watched them with a thoughtful gaze, slowly digesting Rossi’s words. 

“You know how grueling this job can be,” Rossi murmured, tilting his head to the images in the briefing room, “And how much easier it is when you have someone by your side. Someone who knows what it’s like.”

Hotch sighed, crossing his arms again. “I also know how grueling it can be when these… dynamics go wrong.”

“So we cross that bridge if we get to it,” Rossi reasoned.

Hotch shot him a wry look. “‘If’?”

Rossi shrugged, watching him carefully. The unit chief gnawed in his lip, his tightly folded arms falling to his sides as he thought. He turned, watching the pair interact. Their happiness was so palpable he could practically taste it.

“You have a lot of faith in them,” Hotch murmured.

Rossi grinned. “Don’t you?” 

Hotch scrubbed a hand over his face, releasing a mute sigh.

“Aaron,” Rossi murmured, patting the man’s forearm, “Let them have this. They need it.”

Hotch swallowed, giving one short, terse nod before slowly straightening up. “We never talked about this. If anyone asks, we don’t know anything about it. Clear?”

Rossi chuckled as Hotch fixed him with a challenging look, as if he had forgotten Rossi was the one who suggested the idea. “As day.”

“BAU, conference room, please,” Hotch called to the team below, “We have our next case.”