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“The smallest indivisible human unit is two people, not one; one is a fiction. From such nets of souls societies, the social world, human life springs.” - Tony Kushner
Fran Morgan’s apartment is not really big enough for the party being hosted there, but Reid gets the distinct impression that this has never stopped the Morgans before. Years ago he might have fretted about it, the fire safety and the proximity of germs and strangers, but tonight, well, general nerves about meeting more of Morgan’s family have overridden his normal anxiety catalogue. They’ve been together the better part of two years, but he’s been nervous for weeks about Desirée’s birthday party. It’s the first time he's going to meet the extended family and friends, and it feels significant for him, even under the pretence of someone else’s party.
But his curiosity so far has outweighed the anxiety. Morgan is a private person; he’s kind, and generous with his time, but slow to trust. To this end, Reid still thinks about the first time he met Morgan’s mother and sisters, and found out that they already knew about him.
Derek talks about you.
“You’re white,” Tanya says to him. Tanya is Morgan’s ten year old niece, who has apparently avoided the first child-bedtime-round-up. She glances around conspiratorially at the milling party crowd in the over-filled apartment, confirming her status as bedtime fugitive.
“I am,” Reid says. It’s a much more less euphemistic approach than some of the adults have taken to commenting on his singular whiteness at the party – Fran Morgan apparently has the longstanding tenure for her whiteness to be a passive reality.
“Cool,” Tanya says, correcting her position by side-stepping slightly, likely to avoid one of her parents or her grandmother trying to find her to put her to bed. Reid obliges her by not moving, retaining her cover. “My friend Tom is white.”
“So is your grandma.”
Tanya shrugs. “I guess.”
“How is avoiding bedtime going?”
“I’m ten, I’m not a baby. I should get to stay up. I’m the oldest kid.”
“Well, I won’t tell anyone I saw you, but I don’t think I can fight your Grandma off.”
“No, she’d kick your butt,” Tanya says, grinning at him. “But she likes you. She said you were a special party guest and we had to be nice to you.”
“That’s really kind of her, but it’s Desirée’s birthday, so I think she’s the most special party guest.”
“Yeah. That’s my aunty. What’s it like being gay?”
Reid fights the laugh that threatens to shock out of him, and instead scratches his chin thoughtfully.
“It’s pretty good. Your uncle Derek is my favourite person in the world. Except maybe my mom.”
Tanya looks like she’s considering this response for a moment, narrowing her eyes at him. He must pass her check, because she beckons him closer, until he bends down and she can plant both her hands on his cheeks, holding his face and looking serious.
“Uncle Derek is my favourite too, except my mom. You’ve got to be nice to him forever.”
“I will,” Reid says, hoping to convey all the sincerity he can to this ten year old who probably has no idea yet quite how much of a social genius she’s going to be.
“Don’t tell grandma I didn’t say she was my favourite,” she adds, patting his face in what he’s choosing to interpret as affection and not a threat.
“I won’t.”
“Okay. I gotta go.” Tanya releases him, and disappears into the crowded apartment.
“Pretty good being gay, huh?”
Reid turns to see Morgan grinning at him. Reid’s heart flutters like it’s been days, when he’s only been left to socialise on his own for a few minutes. It’s almost ridiculous to miss him after so insignificant a time.
“I haven’t got any complaints so far.”
Morgan slips a hand around Reid’s waist and pulls him close. Reid leans in, letting their heads rest against each other.
“You doing good?”
“Yeah. I criticised Jim Boylen’s coaching record, and that seems to have won me a lot of goodwill.”
“It’s sexy when you talk sports statistics,” Morgan coos. “Imagine, in another life you could have coached Nevada into the NBA.”
“Think that would only be possible in a made for TV movie themed around underdogs beating the odds, which I think is the only timeline where I coach professionally.”
“I think in this universe I’m the plucky lawyer who helps you fight the evil NBA who won’t let you play on a technicality. Your point guard is a golden retriever.”
“Okay, now I know you’re making a reference I don’t know. You can’t steal concepts from sports movies I haven’t seen and claim them as your own.”
“This is different though, because this one’s a romantic comedy.”
“There’s a girl dog,” Reid says, feigning cluelessness, because he knows it will make Morgan laugh. He does, and pulls Reid around to face him, leaning in for a kiss.
“I’ve gotta go help my momma with desserts.”
“I’ll miss you,” Reid says, feeling a little bit silly for it. It’s worth it though, the way Morgan smiles softly at him.
“I’ll bring you cake.”
Reid wanders out of the apartment seeking cool fresh air, and heads down a couple of flights of stairs in the general direction of the small courtyard where there had been a barbecue earlier in the day, where first introductions were made; spouses and cousins, both blood related and long establish friends that cousins is a more viable shorthand, teachers and community leaders and all associated children. The courtyard had blazed with music and chatter and food, and it had been hard to remain nervous when everyone was so relaxed. The number of guests has thinned since, but not by much.
By now it’s much more empty, a few people around a banked barbecue toasting bread, and Morgan’s sister Sarah is off a little way, smoking. As he approaches she smiles coyly and gestures with her cigarette.
“I’ve been drinking, so I forgot I quit.”
He smiles, and takes a long breath of cool air in through his nose. The smell of Sarah’s cigarette is acrid and familiar, almost comfortingly so. All of it combined reminds him of warm summer nights with his mother in the garden.
“I came out for some fresh air,” he says. “It’s pretty warm up there.”
“How are you doing, with all this?” she asks. “I know there’s a lot of people. We’ve thrown you in the deep end.”
“I don’t mind.” It’s true; everyone has been welcoming and friendly, and seeing how happy being with his family makes Morgan makes it worth it just for that.
“So you’re a doctor,” she starts, “but not a medical one?”
“I have three doctorate degrees in mathematics, chemistry and engineering.”
“But why ‘doctor’, if you’re not a medical doctor?” she queries. “I mean, obviously you earned them, but are you 'agent doctor’, or 'doctor agent’?”
“Generally they’re used interchangeably.”
Maybe because he’s been drinking a little wine and is looser than normal, or maybe because he wants to offer something to prove his willingness to be part of the Morgan family, he continues.
“When I first joined the Bureau, I was barely twenty two, joining an elite group of people. People referring to me as 'doctor’ immediately gave me status. My colleagues using the title immediately gave me legitimacy in the eyes of people who might otherwise question my presence.”
“Derek always called you 'doctor’,” Sarah muses. “Right until he started saying 'Spencer’ and not even realising it.”
“It's funny,” Reid says, smiling, “we don't really call each other our first names yet. We've used surnames for a long time, we're formed the habit. But I started calling him Derek in my letters to my mom.”
She smiles warmly at him. Reid surveys the dark courtyard, walled in on all sides by apartment blocks, offering privacy for the party guests. Music and conversation lilts down from the open window of Fran’s apartment, a round of raucous laughter about something he can’t make out.
“Spencer,” Sarah says, and she meets his eyes as he turns back, her gaze intense but level. “I know this is a cliché, but I’ve still got to say it. If you hurt Derek, I will make your life hell.”
Reid considers her, considers the threat. There’s no mirth below it, it’s not a joke. At the same time, he doesn’t feel threatened; he feels like he’s being shown something vulnerable. She keeps looking at him, and Reid considers everything that Sarah knows her brother has been through, everything she’s heard from him and second-hand, everything she’s put together herself.
“I love him, Sarah,” he says honestly. She just keeps looking at him, and takes a drag from her cigarette.
“A lot of people have loved him. He got hurt so bad by people who said they loved him.”
He knows what she’s referencing, even if she masks having to name it with plurality. His throat feels tight.
“I love him,” he repeats, “and I respect him. I admire him, I trust him. I can’t promise you anything, Sarah, but what we have is… symbiotic, more accurately mutualistic, and perhaps co-dependant, really, and—” he stops to gather himself, because she’s still looking at him levelly, but one perfectly arched eyebrow is creeping up. “I’ve never had a relationship, platonic or romantic, that is anything like what I have with Derek. I love him, and I don’t intend to ever hurt him. The fact is, a life where I hurt him would be hell already, even without your intervention.”
She looks at him for a long moment, before her expression eases and she nods. “Good. I’d say I threaten everyone the same way, but you’re the first partner he’s brought home.”
“Really?”
“Really. You can probably expect this talk from Des and Mom, soon enough."
“I’m expecting it,” he says, and she grins at him. “Tanya’s given me her approval, I think.”
“That’s hard-won.”
“She asked me what being gay is like.”
“That tracks. She took me dating Thea in stride. Honestly, I think she’s found a way to use having two moms as social capital, all her friends apparently think it’s really cool. I really thought it was going to be a bigger deal, but as far as she was concerned she got a second mom and a free sister out of it. So now she’s got gay uncles too? She’s set.”
“Wow.”
“Bit different from when we were kids, huh?”
“Definitely,” he says, without explaining that his reaction was mostly to being referred to as an uncle.
“She went to visit her dad just after Christmas, and I tell you, she was disappointed that Isaac doesn’t have any plans to date men.”
“That’s a shame, he should try it. I can’t recommend it enough.”
Sarah laughs, as she puts her cigarette out in an empty plant pot.
“We better get back, or mom’ll come find you to make sure you eat dessert.”
“I suspect your mom worries that Derek doesn’t feed me,” Reid says, as they make for the steps back inside the building. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“Feeding is her love language.”
“Studies on the validity of the concept of ‘love languages’ have returned mostly inconclusive or mixed results. There’s limited evidence that synchronised love languages correlated with relationship satisfaction.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sarah says, waving her hand dismissively as they climb the stairs. “I know some guy just made it up to sell books, but it worked because there’s some truth in it, right? Like how everyone can see something in a horoscope. Mom’s a feeder, if she loves you she feeds you.”
“She’s almost single-handed fed over three-dozen people tonight.”
“She’s got a lot of love. We’re all kinda like that; Dad was the same, always had time for people. He’d have liked you.”
Morgan’s said the same before; it means a lot, knowing how much he misses him, how much he’s modelled himself as a man he thinks his father would be proud of.
“Tanya Morgan!” Sarah says, spotting the bedtime fugitive as they rejoin the party proper. “It’s time you were in bed!”
She pats Reid’s arm and goes to enforce the arbitrary rules of childhood sleep. It’s not familiar, and gives him a curious, bitter-sweet feeling; it wasn’t really something he had to deal with, left much to his own devices regarding bedtime, especially as his mother got more ill. Lucky, in some regards, but having a sole parent who isn’t truly present through no fault of her own made his childhood somewhat peculiar.
“Got a bone to pick with you, Doctor Reid!”
Reid doesn’t startle, but it’s a near thing as Desirée appears from the crowd. She doesn’t look annoyed, for all her inference holds it, and she presses a small glass of wine into his hand.
“Is everything alright?”
“Why’d you have to go and tell Malik about fish tank plants or whatever it was? He’s got ideas now. Where the hell is a hundred-gallon tank gonna go?”
“I was actually telling him that riparium plants can be sustained in a tank as small as ten gallons,” Reid says, without any real contrition. Desirée, who is a little drunk, purses her lips, and then the whole charade of annoyance is broken when she laughs good-naturedly.
“It’s cool. Maybe this hobby will stick! He’s into everything. I’ve only just got him to get rid of all the model planes he’s never gonna build.”
Reid takes a sip of wine, as Desirée watches him, still smiling. It’s an assessment; he’s gotten fairly used to that over the course of the night, the scrutiny of being someone new within a community, a family. He’s doing his best not to be suspicious of it, not to fear consequences of being ignorant of people’s true intentions; he’s not a child any more, and these people are all adults. Unless Morgan is playing an extremely long game of declaring his love and inviting him to meet his family and friends just for it to culminate in ritual humiliation, everything is going to be fine.
“So, is D your first boyfriend?” she asks, missing the mark on nonchalance and diving straight into suspicion.
“He’s, ah, no. I’ve dated other men.”
“How many?”
“Can I clarify how many dates counts as dating?”
“Hmm. Like, serious dating. Long-term dating.”
“Two, then, before M-Derek.”
She smiles a little as he catches himself defaulting to his surname, and drinks from her wine again, looking at him expectantly.
“Go on. Tell me.”
He’s a pretty private person, but so is the rest of the BAU. Doing the kind of work they do means their privacy is something precious, and they all keep fairly distinct lines between work and personal, the entanglement leading up to this very moment notwithstanding.
“There was a guy called Steven I met in a bookstore a few years ago, we dated for a few months. It didn’t really last, because – well, I was in love with your brother.”
“Aw, that’s kinda romantic, you being all hung up on Derek. Bet he was such a lovesick puppy when he thought you’d got with someone else, though. Who’s the other one?”
“I had a boyfriend in college,” Reid says. “Ethan. We’re still friends.”
“Was it serious?”
“Kind of? It was intense. We were both young, both at college early, and we went through some of our most formative years together.”
“Were you in love with him?”
Reid considers, or makes a display of consideration for her benefit. He’s thought about it a lot, reflected on that period of his life, and already settled his feelings over Ethan and his part in his life.
“Probably. If you measure love in the presence of certain chemicals, of emotional attachments that formed from them. But it was never a sustainable relationship, Ethan was… well, Derek would say he was a crappy boyfriend.”
“Oh?”
“We were young, and neither of us had fully developed the reason centres of our brains, and neither of us had been in relationships before. There weren’t that many gay relationships to model it on back then.”
“So, Derek’s the one?”
“Humans aren’t the only species to display monogamous pair bonds, it’s not a particularly uncommon occurrence and provides evolutionary advantages, particularly amongst birds—”
“God, me and D both like nerds,” she says.
Reid, used to being interrupted when his thoughts get away from him, doesn’t mind as he recognises the affection in her voice. Nerd has lost any impact it might have had on him as a child, just with being a grown up and spending most of his time surrounded by self-confessed nerds. He laughs into his wine as he takes another sip.
“You’re good for him. You better treat him right.”
“I already promised Tanya I would.”
“Yeah? That sounds right. Still, sisterly duty, y’know?”
She smiles at him, and offers her glass up for him to clink his against. He hears Morgan’s laugh somewhere amongst the milling guests, and Desirée giggles and bumps his arm with the back of her hand.
“Go find him.”
“Happy birthday, Desirée.”
Morgan is probably holding court somewhere; he’s good at holding a room, and amongst his family and friends, the effect is magnified tenfold. Through the crowd he eventually sees him, and Morgan looks up at just the right moment to catch his eye. He breaks into a grin, tipping his head, beckoning him over.
“Spencer,” Fran says, as he passes by the kitchen. Morgan, across the room, smiles and nods, acknowledging the interception.
“Hi, Fran.”
“Are you enjoying the party? I know there’s a lot of people here.”
She looks a little concerned; he wonders if Morgan has described his social awkwardness, or if she’s just picking up on it.
“I’m doing okay,” he says.
“Do you mind if I steal you away for a minute?” she asks, offering her hand. Surprised, he sets his wine down on the kitchen counter and takes it, letting her lead him down the hallway, away from the party and into a bedroom. She closes the door behind them, quieting the music and chatter, and he stands by it as she goes to a closet.
It’s not awkward, really; he likes Fran Morgan. She’s kind, and makes him think about his own mother.
“It’s silly really,” she says, as she turns away from the closet, holding a small shoe box.
She sits on the end of her bed, and pats the space next to her. Reid sits down, nerves rising again; not fear, but there’s something expectant, weighted to the moment as Fran sets the box on her knees and opens it, tucking the lid underneath it. It’s filled with loose photos, letters, other small trinkets. There’s a small velvet bag, which she picks up and holds between her fingers.
“Derek’s first Sunday shoes were in this box. He was so tiny.”
“He had so much hair when he was a kid,” Reid observes, peering at some of the photos he can see, recognising Morgan’s much younger face. The tiny velvet bag is obviously the thing Fran is working towards, but this moment feels special, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by not allowing her to meander to it when she’s ready.
“Oh yes, a head full of curls! Thank god for Derek’s aunt Yvonne, she taught me how to look after Sarah’s hair, so when Derek decided he didn’t want to cut it I was prepared. I kind of mourned when he asked for his first proper haircut. Yvonne was so welcoming – my parents were… well, they were racist. Sam wanted to ask my father for permission to marry me, but I was so afraid of what would happen I wouldn’t let him. He wanted to be respectful, honourable. I know it’s old fashioned.”
She turns the little bag over and over in her fingers, and Reid waits.
“I think they actually tried to be good about us getting married. But when they found out I was pregnant with Sarah…” She winces. “They never met any of their grandkids. Imagine being that hateful! I’m sorry, this isn’t really what I brought you back here for.”
“It’s okay,” Reid says. “I like getting to know more about your family history.”
“It could be your family, too.”
He doesn’t know what to say. Being accepted by a community as an attachment to it is one thing, but the feelings he’s had today of not only welcome but invitation and generosity, to treat him as part of the family has been a lot to reckon with, in a mostly positive way.
Fran opens the drawstring of the little bag and holds it aloft; Reid open his hand palm up. She tips the bag and a gold ring settles there; its a simple thick gold band, significantly marred on one side with a dent and scratches, though the ring itself holds a good shape.
Reid loses his breath for a moment, because his logic and narrative reasoning have got him to the realisation before Fran explains.
“This was Sam’s wedding ring. It was damaged when he died, but I never had the heart to get it fixed. It’s a part of the story of who he was, and what happened to him, it felt wrong to ever change that. I always thought I’d give it to Derek when he found a girl and settled down, but I’ve been thinking about it, and I think you could maybe…”
“I can’t take this, Fran, this is—” He runs a fingertip gentle over the damage to the gold, feeling the subtle scratches and the more significant pock mark, once probably jagged, now smoothed over.
“I’m sorry, I know this is so sudden. I’m not saying I need you to get married to be a part of this family, you already are because you love my son. But I know with the new ruling, Oberton-something—”
“Obergefell v. Hodges,” Reid supplies, still staring at the ring.
“Well, you can, now. Get married, I mean. So I want you to have this.”
She reaches out to close Reid’s hand around the ring, holding his between both of hers. Reid sniffs, feeling his eyes prick with the threat of tears.
“You make him so happy, Spencer. I have never seen him this content, this peaceful. He’s loved you for a long time, I think, and I’m so, so happy for both of you. I want you to have this, because, well, it just feels right.”
They stay together like that for a few moments until Fran releases his and he can surreptitiously wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand. He tucks the ring back into its little bag and into his breast pocket.
“We should head back, before we’re missed. I’ve got cake for you!”
Reid laughs softly as they both rise from the edge of the bed and rejoin the party. Morgan is waiting in the kitchen, cutting one of several cakes and distributing slices amongst the remaining guests. It’s still busy, and there are no signs of things winding down any time soon, the sky outside turning pink with a late summer sunset.
“What were you two up to?” he says, waggling his eyebrows, as he hands Reid a plate of chocolate cake and a fork.
“She was showing me some photos,” Reid says, a half-truth. Anything to do with the real reason for his chat with Fran feels like something that’s just for them. He leans against the kitchen counter as he digs his fork through the generous layer of chocolate frosting. “You should grow an afro again.”
Morgan laughs, and lifts his thumb to his mouth to lick a stray bit of chocolate off it. It’s a good cake, and Reid tucks in as he observes the party, saying hello to people as they pass by for their share of dessert.
“Can’t believe she broke out the baby photos,” Morgan says, coming to lean next to Reid. “Knew it’d be trouble bringing you home. But you seemed to survive the trials of the Morgan women.”
“Do you think this would have been better or worse if you had brothers?”
“Never really thought about it. Being the only boy was always a good gig. You still holding up okay?”
“I’ve spent plenty of nights out with you later than this,” he says, waggling his cake fork at him. “We’ve stayed at Rossi’s later than this. I’m good.”
“Alright.”
“Do you want to leave?” he asks, softly, just for them. “We’re seeing your mom and sisters again tomorrow, it’ll be fine if we duck out and go back to the hotel. I think we’ve filled our social quota.”
Morgan hums, rolling his shoulders back.
“Do kinda want to take you to bed. Wanna make love to you.”
Reid can feel himself blushing; Morgan rarely uses the phrase when he’s not teasing or being funny, but right now, in this little moment amongst the bustle of the party, Morgan is so sincere, looking at him from under heavy eyelids; a look it took an embarrassingly long time to realise was meant for him.
“Derek,” he says, simply. Morgan leans over to place a kiss at the corner of his mouth; the ring in Reid’s breast pocket feels heavy. “Let’s go.”
“Alright, you finish your cake, then we’ll do the goodbye rounds and get going.”
It’s a short walk and a ride on the L train to get from Morgan’s old neighbourhood to their hotel a little bit further out, but the fresh air of a nighttime summer breeze and the chance to people-watch along the way is good. They’re both a little tipsy from the wine at the party, and Morgan’s fingers drum on Reid’s hand where he’s holding them in his lap. Reid can’t help but imagine what his dad’s ring would look like on his finger.
It’s not as if he hasn’t thought about them getting married, especially with the change in the law. He’s always wanted to; he knows he has a romantic tendency, a thing never quite crushed by the reality of divorce statistics or seeing first-hand all the ways in which a marriage is not a remedy for fractured interpersonal relationships. He’d set the desire aside as childish for so many years, especially with a preference for men; the likelihood of being able to formalise a relationship or make a commitment under the law wasn’t a reality until so recently. But now, with the two of them finally making good on their feelings, things are different. Things that were an idle fantasy before are now a distinct possibility.
Their hotel room is nice, quiet, clean and modern. The first thing Morgan does after taking off his shoes is hook up his phone to put music on, soft r’n’b, an extension of the party soundtrack. Reid takes off his shoes and hangs up his waistcoat, and is beginning to loosen his tie when Morgan comes up behind him, slipping his hands around his waist.
“Liked showing you off tonight,” he murmurs, swaying them both slightly to the music. Reid leans back against him as he lets his undone tie hang loose around his neck.
“Did you?”
“Mmhm. Saw a lot of old friends tonight, got to gush about my wicked smart boyfriend.”
“They took it okay?” Reid hadn’t picked up on any hostility at the party, only the occasional bit of surprise.
“I mean, Sarah’s been with Thea for years now, they wouldn’t have got an invite if they weren’t cool with it. Surprised a few though, I think. Maybe more with having something serious going on, rather than the fact it was serious with a man.”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Yeah. Being a reformed playboy ain’t so bad,” he says, resting his cheek on the top of Reid’s spine, as his hands wrap around his middle. “Think I’ve been waiting all my life for you, pretty boy.”
“All it took was the better part of eight years for us to get here,” Reid says, as Morgan slowly unbuckles his belt for him, and untucks his shirt.
“No regrets. Still found you. Still glad you were my best friend first. And I’m ageing like wine, so you’ve got me at my best, and the rest.”
Morgan smooths his hand over Reid’s chest in his effort to unbutton his shirt, hand skimming over his breast pocket. Reid stills, feeling Morgan raise his head. The next pass with his hand is more deliberate, having discovered the shape of the thing contained there. He dips his fingers into Reid’s pocket and retrieves the little velvet bag. Maybe his silence, the sudden stoppage of his swaying to the music means he recognises it.
Reid turns on the spot, but stays within Morgan’s grasp. One hand rests lightly on his arm, the other holding the bag. He looks at Reid.
“So it wasn’t just baby photos,” he says. “Spencer.”
He knows what comes next, narratively. He knows what moment it is, and how it should go. He knows there’s a question, and a set of potential responses, but more than anything, he knows what feels right.
Reid takes the bag and takes the ring out of it. Morgan’s lips press together in a thin line, the emotion of seeing his father’s ring threatening to show on his face. Reid wonders if Morgan catalogued the damage, before and after when he held his father’s hand as he died on the sidewalk.
Reid slips the ring onto Morgan’s ring finger, adjusting it minutely, hand lingering there. Morgan brushes the thumb of his other hand over the marks on the band, all the sadness and wonder it brings breaking across his face.
“You gotta ask me,” Morgan says softly, finally looking at Reid again.
“Will you marry me?”
“You already know the answer.”
“You’ve gotta say it!”
“Yes, Spencer. I’ll marry you.”
Reid takes Morgan’s face in his hands and kisses him, all their attempts interrupted by happy giggles. Morgan pushes Reid’s shirt from his shoulders, and shuffles them closer to the bed.
“It’s extra-special lovemaking now, fiancé.”
“I’m excited to see what tricks you’ve been saving. Said you’ve been waiting all your life for me, now you’ve got me for the rest of it, I want the good stuff.”
“I’ll show you good stuff, pretty boy.”
As Morgan pushes him down onto the hotel bed, the ring glints in the lamplight; it fits perfectly.
“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations.” - Oscar Wilde