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His ribs were bruised. They always were. Somehow, they always were.
He let his fingertips run over the beaten flesh, over the tender skin, the nasty purple telling him once more You’re alive. This time it was the impact of his vest saving him from the bullet aimed at his heart. Or was it the fist of the UnSub in Boston? Maybe it was the wall he got thrown against, it didn’t matter anyways. His ribs were bruised, they always were.
“You need to stop,” Penelope said behind him, her voice thick with tears, “Derek, you need to stop ”
He pulled his shirt down, desperate to hide his bruised ribs from her. She hated seeing the nasty purple telling her once more He was lucky this time.
When he turned around to his sunshine, he smiled. Penelope always told him his smile was her home, but today she looked at him as if it was haunted. It would leave him cold every single time, no matter how often she looked at him as if she had already buried his body.
“I’m not doing anything, baby girl,” he claimed with his usual buoyant voice and pulled her into his arms, his ribs singing in pain in a distorted hum. The dissonance had always been a strange comfort.
She sobbed into his shoulder and held onto him as if her arms alone could protect him from all harm. It was naive to believe, to hope it was possible, but Derek had always been a fool at heart.
“You need to stop, Derek” she begged him with a pained sob, he hated to hear the tremble in her otherwise cheery voice, “You can't keep chasing death like that.”
“I’m not,” he replied, he was too tired to face that lie today, “I’m just doing my job.”
“No,” Penelope shook her head vigorously and escaped his strong grip to look at him with all the fierce love she had. Derek was undeserving of every single bit of it, but she had yet to find out, “Your job is to return to me, you hear me? You have to return to me.”
Derek could just look at her and smile softly. Her cheeks were wet and stained with sorrow he was guilty of, so he tried to cleanse her from the heaviness with his rough thumb. Her cheeks dried, the pad of his finger catching every single drop, yet it didn’t free her of her grief.
“I always will,” he promised quietly. It was weak and vulnerable, for they both knew fate could always change its mind any moment, Derek had never been the Gods’ favorite. They both knew it would never stop him from taunting them, either.
His ribs were bruised and they would be tomorrow, too.
Perhaps, one day, purple will be Derek’s color.
His ribs were bruised, the broken bones underneath his tender flesh reminding him even when the hospital gown was hiding the evidence from Spencer’s tired gaze. He hated seeing the nasty purple telling him once more He was lucky this time.
“You need to stop,” Spencer said quietly and where had he heard that before?, “Morgan, you need to stop”
Derek didn’t want to have that discussion today. His ribs were broken and bruised, the annoying concussion was still making him dizzy and the wounds the knife had left on his stomach might be stitched up, but he still felt the blood running down his thighs with mocking laughter.
“I’m not doing anything, kid,” he claimed with a tired sigh, sleep was pulling him under with her soft lullaby, “I didn’t have time to wait for backup.”
“Your life isn’t a gamble,” Spencer replied with a stained tongue, he had eaten all his Jell-o. It was such a Spencer thing to do, Derek couldn’t be mad. The genius would sit next to him every time with a book on his lap, the pages old and worn and in a language he didn’t know, the empty Jell-o package his only companion while he feared for Derek’s life. Derek wished he had to offer him something better, but his hands were empty and his ribs were bruised.
“I don’t have to tell you the statistics nor the probability of how often you’ll be lucky again. This isn’t playing cards, this is your life.”
Derek knew that, of course he did. Contrary to popular belief he wasn’t a moron. When he was lying on the floor, his blood pooling underneath him on burned grass and the dead weight of the UnSub crushing his bruised ribs, all he could do was look up to the sky and use the last breath he had to sigh in relief. It was his life, yes, but he had never wanted it in the first place. He couldn’t say that, he couldn’t worry his dear friend even more over something that wasn’t worth mentioning in the first place.
“I know,” he said instead.
They were silent, the heaviness of death still looming over them. Derek closed his eyes and took another wheezy breath, his bruised ribs singing once more.
He was just about to be embraced by sleep, her soft touch promising him rest even if he didn’t deserve it when Spencer muttered something, carving it into his mind with the bloody knife that was his grief.
“How much more do you need to bleed to finally have earned the right to live?”
He wanted to laugh at the irony of Spencer having the audacity to ask him that cruel question. He, who danced with death like it was his long lost lover. He wanted to cry at the answer he knew he could never voice.
There will never be enough, he would say if he had the courage of a child, there will never be enough, kid.
He pretended to sleep instead.
Perhaps, one day, Derek has bled enough.
His ribs were bruised once more, as they always were. Turns out, jumping out of an ambulance might save your life from a bomb, but even grass could stain your skin purple.
“I want you to reach out to Dr. Anderson once we arrive at Quantico,” Hotch said next to him eventually with his ever so calm voice. They had been driving down the highway for quite some time now, the only thing cushioning the silence was the soft hum of the engine as both of their ears were still ringing from hearing Death’s call.
“I don’t need a shrink,” he bit out, perhaps harsher than it needed to be. If he had the energy he would’ve laughed at Hotch’s audacity to demand such cruel thing from him. He, whose every bone was a sacrifice for the team. He wanted to cry, because Hotch was always right.
“You drove a an ambulance through the city that contained a ticking time bomb,” Hotch kept pushing his buttons, just like he always did, “I can’t ignore your suicidal tendencies any longer, Morgan.”
This time he did laugh, “You can’t be serious right now. I’m not suicidal. What the hell, man?”
“You jumped across rooftops and almost fell to death once,” Hotch replied, either oblivious to his distress or purposely seeking it Derek never knew, “You chase UnSubs on your own, even when you’re fully aware you’re at a disadvantage. You run into burning buildings, you jump in front of bullets, you-”
“I’m just doing my job,” he protested, his throat strangled and wrong.
“No,” Hotch said quietly, his voice too soft for his ringing ears, “your job is to reach out to Dr. Anderson when we reach Quantico. Until she clears you, I’m pulling you from the field.”
Derek wanted to argue, to yell, to laugh. But his ribs were bruised and Hotch had seen the tender skin before he had hidden them underneath the worn fabric of his shirt. He hated seeing the nasty purple telling him once more He was lucky this time.
Derek didn’t feel lucky right now.
“I’m not suicidal,” he said instead in childish defiance, his tongue thick and heavy from all the unspoken confessions that wanted to expose him as the liar he had always been.
The silence was even heavier afterwards, the distorted hum of pain his ribs were singing dulled by the fabric of his shirt.
Perhaps, one day, Derek will hum along.
His ribs were still bruised when he sat across Dr. Anderson, her scrutinizing gaze exposing his sensitive flesh hidden underneath layers of cloth. He wanted to squirm and hide his purple skin, but then she’d win. Instead, he let the tips of his fingers run over the old, worn leather of the couch that had carried way too many heavy secrets to still be untouched. Derek felt an odd sense of sympathy, for his flesh was nothing more but worn leather, too.
“This is unnecessary,” he said after the silence made him squirm anyway, “I’m not suicidal.”
“Is that so?” She responded and tilted her head, “Why are you here, then?”
It had taken Derek quite some time, but over the years he had learned to be fond of her. The first time Hotch had forced him onto her couch was mere two months after he had joined the BAU. He had been full of rage and she had taken it in stride with her own special sense of humor. She knew how to push him until he could finally draw breath again and no matter how much he hated Hotch for giving him no choice, it helped.
“Hotch is overcompensating again,” he said with an eye roll, and really, he wasn’t wrong. His boss took his bruised ribs like his own personal failure and no words of his could prevent Hotch from staining his own skin purple, too.
Dr. Anderson hummed and nodded, his file open on her lap, her eyes wandering over Hotch’s statement, “So it has nothing to do with your ‘reckless, borderline suicidal bahaviour’?”
“No, because I’m not suicidal,” he almost hissed, heat crawling up his tensed shoulders, “I’m just confident in my abilities.”
Derek hated it. He hated how people kept on telling him he was suicidal, he wasn’t. If someone knew, it would be him. After all, he had been suicidal throughout his young years, it had been more familiar than his ever changing body that was taken from him before he could claim it as his own.
He knew how it was to crave the Reaper’s embrace, for he had craved it when he couldn’t wash his father’s blood off his tiny hands, when he couldn’t get Buford’s stench off his body no matter how often he scrubbed his skin raw in the shower, when he destroyed his knee and all his sacrifices had been but bitter acid on his tongue. He knew how it was to tightly grasp Death’s hand like a lifeline, like the railing of a fire escape when he had been stuck in a burning building all his life, his skin melting off his ribs while they kept telling him this was home.
Derek had tasted death when he swallowed his momma’s sleeping pills and instead of the promised peace all he had was the vomit to clean off the bathroom floor as biting solace. His stomach had kept aching for weeks to come and the nausea only got that much worse when he took yet another glass of wine in that godforsaken cabin. It hurt and he could only do so much to not clean vomit off the bathroom floor again, but it was the only thing he had. Derek had felt death run down his wrists and thighs coated in his warm blood, the scars kept fading, but the memories would not. It was his punishment for daring to dream of freedom.
Derek knew Death like a distant lover, her touch still lingering on his bruised ribs. And maybe, just maybe, he considered calling out to her from time to time again when he was ten again, and thirteen and fifteen and nineteen and-
But he didn’t, never called her name, never caved, not in a way that mattered. The prayer would always stay on his lips though, no alcohol, no blood, no smudged lipstick of a stranger could wipe it off, he had accepted that a long time ago, or at least he tried to.
“What do you associate with death?” She asked, gently.
He thought about it, if only to humor her. The truth was, every time he faced death all he was embraced with was relief. It would rattle his bruised ribs and take his breath, but the rush of finally would linger even when purple had long faded into green and yellow and then into nothing at all. Soon enough remorse would follow, how could he be so ungrateful? He had a loving mother, insufferable yet sweet sisters, a job he loved, friends that cared, ribs to bruise. He had everything he could possibly ask for and yet when a deadly bullet buried into his vest he’d dream for it to just move an inch upwards. Only for a breath, only for the quarter of a second his mind needed to catch up and the floor to bruise his ribs. It still made him a traitor.
“A huge bill for the funeral,” he answered dryly. She didn’t laugh.
“Not committing suicide doesn’t mean you aren’t suicidal,” she continued with gentle eyes, “In fact, there are many individuals who never attempt and yet are suicidal. Suicide is the last stage and I don’t want that for you, Derek. There is nothing shameful about struggling.”
He wanted to laugh, if only so he didn’t have to listen to the painful hum of his ribs. He wanted to cry, for shame had been his constant companion at the tender age of thirteen and he knew the bitter taste better than the blood that kept filling his mouth. Now, it was searing his tongue.
“You have nothing to worry about, doc,” he said, instead.
Dr. Anderson looked at him, looked at him as if his bruised ribs weren’t hidden underneath worn cloth and his strong arms weren’t digging into them in a desperate attempt to camouflage. She wasn’t close enough to hate seeing the nasty purple telling her once more He was lucky this time, but there was a sympathy in her gaze that was no better than the grief he was always faced with.
It took his ribs to bruise quite a few more times, until he sat on her couch with resigned tears in his eyes and the truth stumbling out of the cage that was his chest with a breath he held onto for so long it had started poisoning him.
“You’re right,” it was a whisper and yet it thundered against the walls that have heard it all, “I just want it to stop.”
Perhaps one day, his ribs will stop bruising.
His ribs were bruised just like they always were. This time, however, he was too tired to hide the beaten flesh from Savannah. It was in the dead of the night when he finally got home and collapsed right at the door with a pained grunt.
“Derek?”
Savannah didn’t flinch when his first instinct was to reach for his gun, but he felt the remorse gnawing at him anyway. With all the energy he could muster, which really was none at all, he got back on his feet and gave her one of his flashy smiles.
“Hey, baby,” he forced his body to relax and dropped off his go bag to kiss her softly. It stung, his lips were still split from the punches they’d received, but it was a small price to pay to finally replace the taste of blood with her tongue, “I didn’t know you’d come over.”
Savannah just looked at him with her big brown eyes, the worry written in all the fine lines around them when she saw his face. Her soft fingers ghosted over his swollen eye, his battered cheek, his broken nose while his own calloused ones ran over her sleep mussed hair, the soft skin of her throat, the collarbone peeking out underneath his shirt she was wearing when she missed him.
She didn’t say anything, she never did, but he still tasted her unspoken words on his split lips.
“You should see the other guy,” he said quietly. She didn’t laugh.
Derek wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed, or his couch, hell, even the floor and sleep off the pain of his bruised ribs, at least until he could ignore them again. He was still filthy with sweat and missed blood the medics didn’t wipe off, death still lingering in the nooks he couldn’t reach, but he was too tired to be disgusted with himself. Tomorrow, tomorrow he’d drink and cleanse himself with alcohol, until his mind could let go of the unfamiliar dread that had paralyzed him. Tonight, tonight he’d soak in it, in his own sweat and his own blood and the devastating realization there had been no relief when he felt the cold barrel against his temple, the gun declaring his death. It had been so close. However, Savannah had other plans.
She didn’t say anything when she peeled off his heavy jacket and dirty boots, she didn’t say anything when she pulled him into his bathroom and opened the tab of the bathtub to let the water flow. The silence was heavy yet an embrace when she started to undress him with gentle hands, her fingers ridding him of the bloody gauze with the efficiency only a doctor had. Her face was a carefully crafted mask and he hated how he preferred it over the sorrow he knew would follow soon. The quiet gasp still left her throat before she could stop it once his bruised ribs were exposed, his beaten flesh tender underneath her soothing touch. She hated seeing the nasty purple telling her once more He was lucky this time, but she loved him and apparently that was enough for her.
Savannah didn’t look at his wounds with wonder and excitement like the women he took to bed did a long time ago. She didn’t make him recall each punch, each stab, each bullet with a charming smile, his pain wrapped up with a bloody ribbon, because people loved the tale of a hero as long as it was pretty enough. Neither did she hold his ribs with a strong grip like the drunk men he had kissed and touched in dark alleyways, because the shame wasn’t supposed to find him there. It always did.
When he kissed her hungrily and hid his bruised ribs with desire he couldn’t feel, she didn’t fall for his ruse. Instead, she carefully led him to the bathtub and helped him ease into the divine water. He looked at her, confused and vulnerable, feeling naked in a way that had nothing to do with his battered body and everything with the panic pressing its fingers into his bruised ribs. If she didn’t want pleasure, why did she caress his hurting cheek and kiss his temple with the tender love of a heart that wasn’t his to claim? How else was he supposed to show his gratitude when that had always been the only thing his past lovers demanded from him?
There was no heat, no demand when she started cleansing him from all the sweat and all the blood with soft cloth, only her healing touch and the calming sense of lavender she had poured into the heavenly water. Savannah cleansed him from the unfamiliar dread that had paralyzed him, cleansed him from death’s lingering touch and replaced it with sweet, innocent kisses of her own. It was a comfort he didn’t know, a stranger he was wary to trust and yet his shoulders relaxed, his eyes closed and his ribs started to heal.
He was floating between sleep’s soft lullaby and her gentle love when she helped him out of the pink water, the silent reminder of his luck escaping down the drain. Guilt whispered in his ear when she dried his body and wrapped his injuries with fresh gauze and soothing cream, but his arms were too heavy and his ribs were bruised.
They still didn’t talk when she reheated his favorite meal from the small restaurant down the street, because her food was horrendous to say the least and he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. He didn’t protest when she gave him water instead of numbing alcohol, nor did he complain when she made him swallow painkillers he usually didn’t bother with. His ribs were always bruised, he feared once he would forget the pain he’d never stop craving the relief.
When he lay with her in bed he could do nothing but watch her eyes finally fill with tears and no matter how often his rough thumbs wiped her wet sorrow from her cheeks, there would always be more. She didn’t tell him to stop, didn’t remind him his life wasn’t a gamble and his luck was bound to run out, she didn’t tell him to visit Dr. Anderson again. He had heard all of this before and yet it would never prevent him from taunting his fate again. Savannah knew that, because she loved him, loved him enough to not try to change him. Still, her love didn’t protect her from the grief he was guilty of.
“I love you,” she whispered in their close embrace, the quiet truth would always leave him breathless.
It wasn’t the first time she had told him and hopefully, if the heavens would show him mercy, it wouldn’t be the last time. It wasn’t the first time, but it felt like it anyway. He wanted to laugh, because how could she be so cruel and make him love her even more when she would abandon him eventually, too. Just like his father, just like the fantasy he clothed Buford in, as he was desperate for love, enough to ignore his claws and the canines that left marks on his soul that would never quite fade. He wanted to cry, because he wasn’t prepared for cold sheets again, nor for foreign lips that only claimed, never gave. Savannah told him she loved him, even when his battered heart was mere useless flesh, even when his ribs would bruise again and leave him ugly and purple. Tears stung his eyes, but he wasn’t brave enough to let them be shown, not yet. It was one thing to reveal his bruised ribs as it made him a hero. It was a whole other thing to show her his bruised soul as it would only expose him as the damaged goods he was.
“I love you too,” he said instead.
Perhaps, one day, he will accept that Savannah didn’t need a hero.
She needed him, only Derek and perhaps, one day, that truth won’t fill him with dread as he didn’t know who he was without bruised ribs.
The last time his ribs were bruised was the day his son was born.
Not even an hour before he looked into the barrel of a gun and all he had felt was naked fear. No relief, only terror when he realized he’d never hear Savannah’s laugh again and never would greet his child into this world full of grief and wonder. He looked into the abyss that was the barrel of a gun and only saw the fate of his father, his son’s fate that of his own. When he did break his father’s curse and held his son for the first time and cried tears freely, he realized he never wanted to have bruised ribs again. He never wanted his son to hate the color purple, because it told him Daddy was lucky this time.
So, he did the one thing he thought he would never have the courage to do. He pulled the battered vest with way too many bullet holes from his body and breathed finally when he was freed of the weight.
When he left his team, his family, he cried like a child in the parking lot. It was probably the hardest thing he had ever done, but it was a small price to pay for his ribs to heal. Just because he left the building he had called his home for almost two decades didn’t mean his team would stop being his home. No matter how much time would pass, when he called Penelope to hear her cheery voice, when he listened to Spencer talking about finally finding peace and happiness, when Hotch helped him make sense of being a father, he knew he would always find his home in their hearts. And he learned, albeit with the grace of a child taking shaky steps, love wasn’t bruised ribs.
The color purple did become Derek’s color, but not on his ribs, no. Purple embraced his hands and his clothes when he painted the walls of his daughter’s soon to be room. He loved the color purple when he dressed his little baby girl with the softest hues of lavender, his own shirts always matching, because he was the proudest Dad. He adored the color purple when Hank painted his face with innocent curiosity, because Daddy should look pretty like Mommy. When he painted his son’s face too with clumsy hands, how did Savannah do it with such grace anyway, he prayed to the heavens above that it would be the only reason his son’s skin would be purple.
Years later, Derek could give Spencer an answer and it wasn’t the same one he would’ve given him a long time ago, no. They were sitting on his porch watching their children run with glee and laughter, Hank helping Spencer’s daughter carry her as her legs were still small and wobbly. It was spring, the sun was caressing his face and the chilled beer was a relief for the heat that caught them off guard. It was a strange comfort to sweat with no blood to mix and he marveled each time anew.
“I bled enough,” he said quietly.
Spencer looked at him, just looked at him. There were new lines around his eyes, but they weren’t caused by grief anymore. Happiness had always suited him better, he thought with a smile.
“You did,” his friend agreed just as quietly.
That day he finally could accept he didn’t need bruised ribs any longer to earn Spencer’s love and respect. He would always look at him with wonder and tenderness, even when his body froze when Hank came to him with bloody knees. It wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last time, still Derek prayed his son would never bleed like he once had to. Hank’s laugh didn’t vanish, because he knew Daddy would always wipe the blood off and kiss his pain away and that would never change.
Derek did start to hum along, but it wasn’t to once known bruised ribs, no. He hummed the lullaby his parents sang him once upon a time when he didn’t know purple would hurt him one day. He caressed his son’s wild hair and watched him drift off to sleep, his daughter drooling onto his chest with a toothless smile. His ribs didn’t sing in distorted pain, but his heart did in pure joy and Derek loved that song, as it made his daughter giggle each time.
He finally learned how to be loved without being a hero with bruised ribs, they had stopped bruising a long, long time ago. Savannah would hold him at night even if there was no purple to embrace and he would always be his children’s hero, as he was their Daddy and Daddy always chased the monsters away, even if he was tired to the bone. Not from greeting Death, no. From love and laughter and building a home where his bruised ribs once were. Crawling underneath beds and looking into closets and seeing his children’s big, innocent, proud eyes was a greater honor than kicking down doors and receiving medals for it in return.
Derek would lie if he claimed he had forgotten about Death, but she wasn’t his distant lover anymore, no. She was a long lost friend he saw in the crowd once in a while and he returned her smile every now and then, but her touch had faded just like his bruised ribs. And maybe, just maybe, he considered calling out to her from time to time again when he was ten again, and thirteen and fifteen and nineteen and-
But he didn’t, never called her name, never caved, because the names of his family had always been sweeter on his lips. He forgot the prayer she had taught him at the tender age of thirteen, for Life was his new companion and she taught him a prayer that cherished his wife and his son and his daughter and his friend and himself.
So, when he was ten again and couldn’t wash his Father’s blood off his tiny hands he embraced Hank even tighter and let his giggle cleanse his sorrow. When he was thirteen again he let Savannah run him a bath and clean the stench off his body. She didn’t scrub his skin raw, but caressed every inch of his and somehow, he finally could breathe without having to drink another glass of wine. Then, he cried into her shoulder and her arms were the safest place on earth, because in her embrace he was brave enough to expose his bruised soul and accept he wasn’t damaged goods, after all. And when all his sacrifices tasted like bitter acid on his tongue, he would take his children to a cafe and buy so much ice cream until their stomach hurt from laughter and sugar and all he could taste was the sprinkles of his daughter’s ice cream.
Derek started to forget how his bruised ribs had stolen his breath a long time ago and what a miracle that was. He learned to only need himself, just Derek and the day had come where that truth didn’t fill him with dread anymore as he finally knew who he was without bruised ribs.
Perhaps, one day had been the day his son was born.
The sky had become bruised with hurricane hues-
blues and violent violets.
And yet yellows emerged in the cracks and seals, a sign that the hurt had already started to heal.
-Sean Norris