Archive of Our Own

Derek needs coffee. 

That’s why his eyes are trained on the office kitchen. It has nothing to do with Spencer standing there in a sweater vest, his top button undone and messily peeking out, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he pours another cup of his signature caffeinated monstrosity. 

From JJ’s desk, he hears her and Penelope giggling and whispering. He knows he’s been staring for too long, but after the case they’ve just had, who can blame him? 

His palms still sweat when he thinks of Spencer on that train, armed with just a fake government chip and a lot of faith. 

It hit him when he was tightening the kid’s bulletproof vest, hands shaking, fumbling with the straps like if he just fussed around long enough, Spencer wouldn’t have to go in there. 

I love you. 

When he was trying to make his fingers obey, desperate to nail that stupid magic trick, anything to keep Spencer away from that Unsub. 

I love you. 

But really, it started earlier. Under the threat of a long distance sniper, when he was pressed up against Spencer in the dirt, both of them breathless, hearts pounding, the grass tickling his skin, Spencer’s hair brushing his nose. Panic, and the faint scent of lavender shampoo, had overridden whatever new feelings had begun to stir in his chest. 

He watches Spencer now, still trying to open a packet of sweetener. He eventually gives up, tossing it across the counter and going for the container of pure sugar instead. 

“I’m gonna go get some coffee.” Derek says absentmindedly, already halfway up from his desk.

Penelope and JJ exchange eye rolls and stifled laughs. 

He shakes his head and walks off, muttering, “Just getting coffee…” 

When he finally reaches the kitchenette, Spencer is scowling at his mug, setting it down to add another free pour of sugar. 

“Easy there, tough guy. Have some coffee with your sugar.”

“I need something to wake me up.”

Derek pours his own drink, watching the dark liquid fill up to the slight chip in the interior of the mug, just where he likes it. Then, the tiniest splash of milk. 

"Late night?" He asks, turning to face the younger agent.

Spencer nods without looking up from his sugary sludge of a drink. 

"My man!"

I wish. 

"Not that kind of late night." 

Derek swallows his relief and walks over, placing a hand on Spencer’s back, memorising the way the wool clings to his fingertips.

If there’s one thing Derek Morgan knows how to do, it’s derail Spencer Reid’s one-track mind.

"Okay, so tell me, what keeps Dr. Reid awake at night?” He says, squeezing Spencer’s shoulder and taking a sip of his coffee. “Wait, let me guess. Memorising some obscure textbook.”

He turns around to face Spencer’s unimpressed expression, his hand still on his shoulder.

“No, I got it, I got it.” 

Spencer raises his eyebrows at him.

“Watching Star Trek...and laughing at the physics mistakes."

"Actually, there aren't that many scientific errors in Star Trek. Especially considering how long ago it was made.”

“Right.” Derek knows that. 

He knows a lot of things, actually. Sometimes he'll pretend he doesn't know the answer to something, just so he can hear Spencer explain it. 

He always ends up learning a thing or two anyway. 

“Well, kid. Next time you need a pick-me-up, let me know. I make a mean cinnamon latte.”

Spencer blinks at him, startled by the offer. “You… know how to make lattes?”

Derek shrugs. “Barista summers, baby. A man of many talents.”

“I’d like that.”Spencer looks down into his mug, lips twitching at the corners. 

“Just lay off the late night science experiments okay? We need that genius brain sharp.” Derek says, leaning against the counter. 

“But that’s not it I—“ Spencer looks up at him through his lashes. “I’ve been having dreams...” 

Derek stills, coffee halfway to his mouth, hand still warm and tingling from the seconds it was attached to Spencer’s shoulder. 

For one breathless brief moment, he thinks—Is he…? Is this—

“Dreams?” Derek repeats. 

“I guess nightmares would be a more accurate description.” Spencer says, looking down at his mug. 

Oh.

The word hits him like a slap. Reality crashes in, and Derek swallows hard, his own nightmarish memories clawing toward the surface. 

His childhood demons have been replaced by cases that stick to his skin like a cold sweat. Cases where Spencer has guns pointed at his head, bombs surrounding him.

Cases when the ache in Derek’s chest and the panic ringing round his ears—too intense to be a normal concern for a coworker— eat him alive, night after night. 

He clears his throat. “Is that what’s been keeping you up?”

“I used to get them occasionally,” Spencer admits, “but lately it's like I have them every night.”

“What are they about?”

“This. What we do.” 

Spencer bites his bottom lip, eyes drifting to the wall of heroes. “Do you have nightmares?”

He tackles Spencer into the grass, and he falls right through. Leaving Derek scrambling at dirt and the roots of plants to find him. 

Spencer with a hole in his head, blood splattered against the hospital walls, the long distance sniper smiling maliciously. Gideon quits on the spot, Hotch panics, JJ wails, Elle tries to scoop his brains back into his skull. 

Derek blinks, forcing the image away. He stares at Spencer, alive and jittery. His feet shifting every few seconds, his fingers nervously tapping the coffee mug…and suddenly, he’s hit with the wild urge to tell him everything. Every single thing that wakes him up at night, sweaty and shaking, every urge to call him in the early hours, just to hear his lungs work. 

Maybe it could all be easy. 

He catches a glimpse of Gideon behind him, moving up quickly to Hotch’s office. No, it couldn’t be just easy. 

He’d seen the fallout from Cyber Division, Anthony Shorton asked out Natalia Evans, only to receive a scathing rejection. 

Penelope had gleefully dragged him into her lair with the news: Anthony transferred to a lower-down role in International Operations. 

“Couldn’t handle seeing her everyday I guess.” She’d said, swinging on her chair. “Isn’t that kinda romantic though?”

He didn’t know what to say then, and he certainly doesn’t know what to say now. 

“Reid, I'm not sure if I'm the right person for you to talk to about this.”

“Why not?”

“It's just, uh…” He shakes his head. “Did you ask Gideon about it?”

“No.” Spencer says, finally looking at him. 

Derek stares back, searching Spencer’s eyes for the right answer. For all the profiling skills in the world, he’s not making very good use of them right now.

“You should.”

The words are out before he can stop them.

And the second they’re out, he knows they’re wrong. Spencer’s face instantly falls. 

Before Spencer can respond, Elle appears.

“Hey, Hotch wants everyone in the round table room.” 

She hovers at the edge of Derek’s vision, but he can’t look away from Spencer.

And Spencer’s staring right back.

“Something going on with you two?” Elle asks. 

Oh yeah, sure! Hi Elle, I want to eat our youngest co-worker alive. 

“No.” Spencer spits out, stalking past him without looking back. 

“Reid—” Derek starts, but the kid doesn’t hear him. And if Spencer does, he’s doing a great job of pretending he didn’t. 

“Jesus, Morgan.” Elle slaps him on the shoulder. 

“What?”

“You couldn’t pick anyone else? Rosa from IT? Hell, even Anderson?”

“Anderson? What are you even talking about?”

Elle raises an eyebrow. “You’re seriously asking?”

“Reid? Me and the kid?”

“You’re not exactly subtle, Morgan.”

Elle just stares at him. 

Derek scoffs heading for the roundtable.

“Be good to him okay,” Elle calls after him, her voice louder than he’d like. “Remember, I have a higher shooting accuracy score than you!” 

“You’re ridiculous. Lay off the romance novels, Greenway.” 

Derek sighs when he spots Spencer at the police station. 

They’d arrived late yesterday, worked into the early hours, and come up with absolutely nothing. If Spencer’s appearance is anything to go by, he didn’t get any sleep at the admittedly plush Bureau-funded hotel.

Purple rings sink into the skin under his eyes, he’s swaying on his feet and chugging a coffee out of an FBI Academy travel mug.

Derek recognizes it from the FBI Academy welcome kit. A tote bag full of branded junk they were all given when they moved into the dorms. He’d tossed his in the trash on day one.

Spencer basically topples into his seat, putting his satchel down on the space next to him. He watches him get up again, stumbling over to the coffee machine like a newborn foal.

Spencer grabs two mugs. Without looking over, he starts making Derek’s coffee exactly the way he likes it. Derek’s stomach swoops when he watches Spencer lean down, slowing his pour to make sure he gets the exact coffee-milk ratio Derek always goes for. 

It makes him think of the conversation from yesterday evening, the one he already regrets.

“Morgan, you know he’s going to be okay, right?” 

“I’m just asking you, as his superiors, to talk to him. He thinks it’s a sign of weakness. I just think it would be good for the kid to hear from someone he looks up to. That’s it.”

“And you don’t think that’s you?” Hotch replied, his poker face unflinching. 

“I’m not his boss. I-I can’t help him, he—“ 

“I’ll talk to him.” Gideon interrupts, a rare small smile on his lips. 

Gideon and Hotch had exchanged a glance then, something Derek preferred not to profile.  

He’s gonna mentor the kid, yeah mentor him. He’s gonna add himself to the Hotch and Gideon dynamic. He wonders if they coordinate it. Maybe it’s telepathic. Some Bureau-wide father-figure mindlink.

His efforts to infiltrate that inner circle have so far led to nothing useful, if the zombie-like appearance of their youngest agent is anything to go by. 

He tries to catch Gideon’s eye, but he’s bent over the case file, scanning it as if he doesn’t know it inside and out already. 

He knew leaving it to Gideon was a bad idea, transferring something as precious as Spencer to the hands of a man who brought a twenty one year old into the FBI, paraded him around the office like he was a prized bird—

No. 

That’s not fair. 

His eyes flick to Hotch’s instead, eyebrows raised in question. 

The silent question passes between them like walkie-talkie static. Did you listen to me? Did you check on him?

Hotch just looks away, trailing his gaze back to the case whiteboard. His hand briefly touches Spencer’s shoulder as he walks past, guiding the younger agent gently toward him.

Derek watches them talk, all crossed arms and fake nonchalance, and flinches when Spencer glances his way. 

“So how long has it been going on with you guys?” JJ asks casually, slouched deep into the stiff office chair. 

“Hm?” Derek hums, eyes still locked on Hotch and Spencer.

JJ scoffs. “Come on. You know it’s fine, right?”

That gets his attention. He tears his gaze away and looks at her. “What are you talking about?”

“You and Spencer.” She grins, tilting her head. “It’s okay. Did you think we were all secretly raging homophobes or something?” 

“What?” He risks a quick glance at Spencer again, his head turning so quickly it almost hurts. “Wait what?”

“I just wanted to know how it was going. I’m happy for you, is all.”

“What? I’m mentoring him!” Derek says, his voice pitching up in protest. 

JJ laughs, a full on palm slapping-the- table laugh. 

“JJ? Jennifer?” 

“Oh my god.” Her laughter dies down, now she’s just staring at Derek with wide eyes. “Morgan?”

“JJ?”

“You’re being serious?”

“Yup…” Derek says slowly, popping the p.

“Oh. We all thought—“

“We?” Derek leans back in the chair, staring up at the stained ceiling. “Is this about what Elle saw earlier?”

JJ gasps, her hands clasping together. “What did Elle see?” 

“Nothing! Literally, nothing! Where are you pulling this from?” 

“The long distance sniper case…”

“He was held at gunpoint, JJ…all he had was a whistle.”

“Yeah, we were all worried. You were the one throwing kevlar vests across parking lots and yelling at sergeants—"

“He deserved it!” 

“I know! All I’m saying is…” JJ smirks, “you, Derek Morgan, freaked.”

Did he freak? He still remembers seeing Spencer sitting in the ambulance, covered in bruises, tear tracks down his face. Derek had wanted to shove him inside, slam the doors shut, and either kiss him senseless or wrap him in a blanket and never let anyone touch him again. Trace the zip-tie marks around his wrists with his fingers… maybe even his mouth.

Instead, he got a well deserved whistle to the face. Then came six months of questioning his sexuality, and five more of stolen glances across the bullpen.

Still, he thought he kept it sufficiently under wraps. 

He looks back to JJ, she raises her eyebrows and nods slowly. 

Was it that obvious? 

Derek’s eyes widen, he opens his mouth to retort, but footsteps interrupt him.

Spencer leans against the doorframe, only one mug in his hand. 

“Hey, Mor—” Spencer starts, then stops. His eyes flick between the two of them. “Is something wrong?”

JJ beams. “Nope. Just giving him some very important feedback.”

Spencer tilts his head. “On the case?”

“Sure!” JJ says with a beaming smile. 

“Okay?” Spencer’s eyes flick between them again.  “Morgan, Hotch wants us to check something out.” 

He turns and walks out toward the SUV, not sparing Derek a second glance. He watches him go, then turns to JJ, expression full of weary exasperation.

The car ride to the witness’ house is awkward. The silence is thick and heavy, piling on top of them like mud.

When they finally pull up, Spencer flings open the door like the seat’s on fire.

“Pretty Boy, wait up!” Derek calls, fumbling with his seatbelt.

Spencer stops short. He turns to Derek with an icy expression.

“Can you just—can you please call me Reid while we’re in the field? Thanks.”

Derek gapes at him for a beat. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. But Reid—”

“You’ve already told my boss that I’m not competent at this job,” Spencer hisses. “You don’t have to go around making fun of me in front of the LEOs too.”

“What? Bullying you? I’m not bullying you, I—”

“Can we just do our jobs today?” Spencer bites out. “Please?”

“I was trying to help you.”

“How? If I wanted Hotch’s help, don’t you think I would’ve asked him?” Spencer crosses his arms tight around his waist. “Let’s just get to work.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” 

He’s well aware this is the moment he should’ve gotten it out in the open, but even the thought of saying I told your longtime mentor too! makes his tongue feel too big for his mouth. 

The rest of the day passes in a torturous loop. Derek turns to Spencer, opening his mouth and then closing it again. Words clinging to his teeth like dirt. 

Without their usual banter, the day drags by like molasses. It feels like six years pass before Derek finally makes it back to the hotel lobby, and a further decade until he’s sitting alone on the clean sheets. 

His limbs feel like they weigh a thousand pounds, and the image of Spencer lying in the next room, alone and haunted from his nightmares, doesn’t help. Not when Derek knows exactly what that feels like.

He sighs, flopping back on the bed with one thought echoing through his head:

I have to fix this. 

He hesitates outside Spencer’s door.

The hallway’s quiet. 

He shouldn’t.

He absolutely shouldn’t.

But he knocks anyway.

The door swings open and Spencer is standing there, his normally gelled hair is curling around his face, still slightly damp from the shower. His cheeks are flushed, and his oversized Cal Tech shirt shows enough collarbone to momentarily stall Derek’s brain. 

All his words turn to mush in his throat. 

“Did something happen with the case?” Spencer’s already looking round for his bag, eyes drifting to the left of his hotel room. 

“Hey,” Derek says instead. 

“Hey…the case?” 

“No, no! Nothing like that.” 

Spencer’s eyes snap back to his own. 

“Okay? Then what is it?”

“Yeah, so…” Derek says dumbly. 

“So?”

“The nightmares.” 

Spencer nods. 

“You have them,” he cringes at how stupid he sounds. 

Pull it together, Morgan! 

“…and I just felt bad about how I went about it. Let me help you.”

“How?” 

Derek makes a show of slinging his go bag around his shoulder, patting the strap with raised eyebrows. 

“You have time for a science experiment tonight, Reid?” He adds in the surname quickly, like throwing water onto a fire. 

He winces when Spencer just gapes at him, his large eyes blinking in confusion.  

“Y-you want to…?” He gestures vaguely at the room. 

Derek nods, and Spencer scoffs. 

“You wanna babysit me like I'm one of your baby cousins? Telling Hotch wasn’t enough, now you’re just being cruel.” He scrunches his nose up, his hand curls into the hem of his shirt. “It isn’t funny.”

“Reid, no! That wasn’t my intention at all, and I think you know that. C'mon man.” 

“What then?”

“I found some statistics,” Derek says, hands up. “You’re sixty percent less likely to have a nightmare if you sleep next to someone else.”

Spencer opens the door a little wider. 

“You researched?”

“Yeah, I did. I also know a night's rest sounds real good, kid.” 

“Yeah,” Spencer sighs. Opening the door fully and walking towards the bed. 

“We’re just testing a hypothesis, alright pretty boy?” 

“Mmm.” 

“Why are you so suspicious?” Derek asks, walking into the bathroom to change. He moves the copious amount of hair products off of the sink before setting out his own toiletries. 

He can see the outline of a smiley face in the corner of the mirror, alongside some nonsensical equations, fading in the bathroom steam.  

“I’m not!” Spencer yells from the other room.  

“Don’t want me to see you in your PJs?” He teases, walking out of the bathroom in his sweatshirt and sweatpants. Not his usual attire, but he doesn’t want to freak the kid out. Also, he’s 60% sure Spencer probably runs as cold as an ice cube in bed. 

“Listen, is this cool?” Derek asks. He rubs the back of his neck as he sits on the bed. “I’m doing this for you, kid.”

Liar. 

“I mean I—why?”

“I feel bad, okay? I feel bad. I shouldn’t have gone to Hotch I just…I thought he’d help.”

“Yeah well, he didn’t.”

“I know,” Derek sighs. “So let me help.”

Spencer jerkily nods his head and crawls into bed.

Derek sets his phone down on the busy side table and immediately raises an eyebrow. Various bottles, cans and mugs cover the whole surface area. 

“Man! You got the whole convenience store next to you.”

Spencer barely glances over. “What? That’s not an abnormal amount of drinks.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No it’s not! I have a Gatorade for hydration, my sleepy tea—which, by the way, you kindly interrupted, so now it’s cold—”

“Calm down, I’ll put it in the microwave for you.”

“Don’t you dare, that is disgusting. And I have my coffee mug to remind myself that I can have a coffee in the morning, so I get up quicker.”

Derek fights a smile, picking up one of the cans. “What about this one? Kid, it’s radioactive orange, and I don’t even know what this says…” He squints at the bubble lettering. “Is that Russian?”

“It’s my fun drink.”

Derek smiles at him, sinking down into the hotel bed. 

“Okay, night, Dr. 7/11.”

“Stop.”

“Mr. Wawa…”

He sees Spencer grin before he turns his face into his pillow to hide it. 

“Spencer ‘Kwik E Mart’ Reid, you didn’t tell me you had a PHD in gas st—“ 

“I thought you came here to help!” Spencer whines, muffled by his pillow. Even though he knows it’s in jest, Derek gets an awful feeling lodged in his heart. 

This is one thing he does not want to screw up.

Derek takes a minute to admire him. The touch-averse Spencer Reid, normally clad in knits and ties, lying on his back wearing soft sleepwear, hugging the duvet with both arms in a bundle to his chest. 

He wonders what it would be like to lay on top of him this time, to feel his body sink into plush sheets instead of the rough ground? 

He sighs and settles down into the hotel bedding. “Night, Spencer.” 

They lie there for a few minutes, both on their backs, both seemingly afraid to move. 

Derek clears his throat and breaks the silence.

“Thought you’d be a wriggler.” 

“No. I just—” Spencer cuts himself off. “I don’t usually have company.”

“Yeah. Me neither.”

“Really?”

“Not like this.”

He doesn’t get a response. 

Spencer clicks the bedside light back on, throwing a hoodie over the lampshade. 

Derek decides not to comment on that. 

“Do you think it’ll work?” Spencer asks quietly.

“What?”

“The science experiment. Sleeping next to someone to reduce nightmares.”

Derek huffs out a soft laugh. “Only one way to find out.”

Derek watches as Spencer turns around, back facing him, finally curling up in a comfortable position. 

He smiles at him, watching as the younger agent throws his own arm around his waist like he’s seen him do a thousand times on the jet couch. 

“Want me to keep my light on?” 

“No, no, it’s fine I—It’s fine. This one’s enough. Thanks. Night, Morgan.”

“Night.” He repeats, softer this time.

Derek wakes up to soft whimpers and the rustle of bedsheets. 

The clock on his bedside, slightly obscured by the gatorade and coffee mug, blinks 3 : 00 AM. 

In the soft light of the hotel room, he can see Spencer moving back and forth, his mind lost in the throes of horrific conjurings. 

“Fuck.” 

Not for the first time today, Derek gets the unfamiliar feeling that he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Reid!” He reaches out to touch Spencer’s back, his shirt is drenched with sweat and shivers. 

Spencer whimpers and sobs, but doesn’t wake up. 

“Spence!” The nickname slips out, it feels wrong on his tongue but right in his brain. He feels like a cheap impression of JJ. 

Spencer shifts, though. 

“Spencer!” He shakes his shoulder, rubbing circles into the joint. 

Spencer wakes up with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

“Woah, woah, woah! It’s okay pretty boy, it’s okay, deep breaths.” 

He takes a breath in, it breaks on a heartbreaking sob. 

“Copy me.”

He keeps one hand on Spencer’s arm, rubbing soft circles into his forearm, breathing exaggeratingly in and out with him until they’re both sitting up. 

“Why are you saying sorry?”

“I wanted it to work.” He says brokenly. “I-I can hear the gunshot still. It was so close to my ear, and everything hurt and H-Hotch…I can’t breathe.”

Derek’s heart fizzles and breaks into a million tiny pieces. 

That case seems to have left its jagged mark on them both. He remembers seeing Spencer’s forced smile in the days that followed, the way he unstrapped his gun the second he could. How his eyes would close when he predicted someone’s death. Victim or unsub, it didn’t seem to matter. 

Spencer’s breathing picks up again, his chest dangerously rising and falling at a rapid pace. 

How the hell did he deal with this on his own, night after night? 

“I can’t—”

“Okay, okay Spencer, look at me.” 

Panicked hazel eyes turn to face him, eyebrows pinched together when his breaths get shorter and come in faster. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not,” Spencer chokes out, one hand shooting out to grip onto the sheets, his thumb moving back and forth over the duvet. “I killed him.” 

“Spencer, it’s just me here, can you feel the bedsheets? Hear that branch knocking against the window?”

Spencer nods rapidly, wheezing in another breath. 

“It’s just us, in a hotel in some random small town—” 

“Mcallister.” Spencer whispers. 

“Yeah, Mcallister.” Derek squeezes his knee gently. 

Spencer has sparkling tears trailing down his cheeks. All Derek wants to do is kiss them away. 

“Derek, just go back to your room. I—I won’t be able to calm down after this. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not going to leave you.” Derek reaches for the hand clawing at the duvet, holding it in a loose enough grip that Spencer could pull away if he wanted to. Instead, he feels a clammy hand tighten around his own.

“Let me help you, pretty boy.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes but and lets out a long exhale, it shakes and breaks off into a heart wrenching sob. 

“Spencer, sometimes you just have to let yourself feel. I know that case was rough, baby.” 

The nickname slips out without his consent, but it works. Spencer’s pretty eyes flutter open, like they were waiting for the word. 

“Talk to me.” Spencer heaves out, turning to him with a desperate look in his eyes. “Please?” 

Derek’s never heard those words leave his mouth, ever. 

He scrambles to find an engaging enough topic, reaching into the furthest corners of his mind. 

How do you keep a genius distracted? Whilst also being a good co-worker, a good friend—No, a mentor.

“Wanna hear why I joined the FBI?” He blurts out instead of bringing up the case like he wanted to. 

Spencer nods rapidly. 

“Part of why I wanted this job so bad was because I wanted to see America.” Derek starts, stretching out his arms. 

“You hadn’t seen—“ He sniffs, gulping in another gasp of air. “America before?”

“Nah, not properly. I felt so tied down to Chicago. Taking care of my Mom, my sisters…loyalty to my Dad. I don’t know…You good?”

“I’m fine.” Spencer tries to offer a wobbly smile in reassurance, his hand moving to rub at his throat. “It’s just like—just like something’s stuck there, is all.”

Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Spencer cuts in with a soft whimper.

“Just keep talking… please?”

He hands Spencer the gatorade before continuing.

“I needed a good excuse to leave, y'know? I couldn’t just leave them, it needed to be for some amazing job opportunity, a recognisable name, something that made them go ‘Derek, go, you can’t pass this up!’”

He hears the sound of Spencer attempting to calm his breathing before he speaks again, and against his better judgement, he places his hand on his coworkers chest, and places Spencer’s hand on his own. 

Letting him feel the steady rise and fall. 

Derek inhales sharply when he feels Spencer’s sternum through his thin Caltech shirt. He thinks about him so much, that sometimes it’s hard to imagine he’s all flesh and bone and atoms. 

“I guess I just felt stuck. You ever feel like that?” Derek asks, his voice dropping to a low whisper, as if they were trading secrets behind the bleachers. 

“I think I’ve felt stuck since I was six. Trust me, I understand.” Spencer says, his words finally sounding steady. Derek swears he can feel the vibrations of his voice shake into his palm.

Spencer’s breathing sounds even now, his shoulders eventually relaxing. 

Derek tears his hand away slowly, “I know.”

“So,” Spencer readjusts, sinking back down into his pillows. “What do you think of America?” He stretches one arm out, gesturing at the tiny hotel room like it represents the entire country.

Derek laughs. 

“I’d wake up in a different city every week, and by the sixth month of being a fully fledged profiler, I realised they were all the same.”

“I don’t think they are.”

“You don’t?”

He turns to his side, watching Spencer’s profile melt into a soft smile. His nose twitching slightly when one of his curls falls onto his forehead.  

Spencer turns to point that smile at him. “Everywhere I go feels like an achievement. I never thought I’d leave Vegas, at one point I thought they were going to bury me in the high school soccer field.”

He says it with a laugh, but Derek frowns. Nightmare fuel, again.

“Want me to keep talking?”

Spencer stares at him for a moment, a small smile dancing on his lips before it fades away. He slumps further against the headboard, tilting his head up to the ceiling. “I’m so tired.”

“Don’t you normally have to do multiple tries and test different variables and shit?” 

“Yeah.” He replies, voice tired and spent, but at least his breaths are finally even. Derek notices his fingers anxiously tapping against each other, his eyes flick to the hotel door every five seconds.

“Okay, let’s test a variable. Bring that statistic up. Wear my sweater.”

“The-the one you’re wearing?” 

“Yup.” He pops the p. 

Even in the dim moonlight, he sees the blush paint Spencer’s cheeks a deep pink. 

Derek turns on the lamp, revealing the Chicago Blackhawks logo printed on his front.

“Ice hockey? What happened to Cubs or nothing?” Spencer asks with genuine confusion. 

“It’s still Chicago!” 

“Is it because they’re getting thrashed?”

“Thrashed? Thrashed?! How do you even know that? Also, no!” He sits up fully, pulling off his sweater. “People are allowed bad spots y’know. They’ll bring it back.”

Spencer leans against the headboard, his face illuminated by lamps and the moonlight filtering through shitty hotel curtains, “I believe it!” 

Derek flings the sweater at his face, not missing the way Spencer pointedly did not look at his now bare chest. 

“Yeah, yeah. So how do you know about the Cubs? Are you studying sports to impress me, Doctor?”

“You think very highly of yourself. No, I keep up to date.” Spencer’s voice is dry as he pulls the sweater over his head. “You know, sports betting can be very profitable if you aren’t blinded by city loyalty.”

“Also if you’re a genius?” Derek says, flopping back onto the bed. 

“Also, if you’re a genius.” Spencer smiles at him, teeth and all. 

Derek smiles back. 

Spencer looks down at himself and groans. “I look like staff!” 

“What!” Derek splutters, a laugh escaping his lips. “Did you say you look like staff?”

“I look like I work at the hockey arena.” Spencer whines. “If I wore this to a game they’d give me a ticket scanner and tell me to get on with it.” He tugs at the hem, frowning at the logo that’s printed across the front. 

Derek leans on his elbows and lets himself look.

The sweater’s huge on Spencer, swallowing him up. It slips low on his shoulders, pooling at the top of his thighs. When he lifts his arms, the sleeves fall over his hands, and he folds them back again and again, trying to get them to sit right at his wrists.

His lashes fan against his cheeks. His bottom lip juts out in mock frustration.

Derek swallows, hard.

No. Spencer doesn’t look like staff.

He opens his mouth, fully prepared to humiliate himself and tell his coworker how he really looks in his sweater. 

“Spe—“ 

“On you it looked cool.” Spencer complains, cutting him off with a huff. 

“You’re ridiculous.” Derek says through laughs, it feels achingly familiar to a teenage sleepover. As if a satanic killer isn’t roaming the streets, as if they don’t have FBI badges and guns stashed away in a hotel cabinet, as if Spencer hadn’t woken up at 3am crying. “Alright kid, night.” 

Spencer gives up on folding the sleeves, letting them fall down over his hands again. “Night.”

“Wait!” Derek sat up again, the bed shuddering with the force of it.  

“What?” Spencer shrieks.

“Where’s the washroom? Also, do you take AMEX?” 

“You. Are. So—“ Spencer groaned. “Go to bed, Morgan.” 

For a while, the only thing filling the room was the sound of uneven breathing and the rustle of the sheets. 

Derek turns back around for the sixth time in approximately ten minutes, facing the back of Spencer’s head. 

He hesitates, hand falling into the empty space between them. 

He can almost hear Elle’s voice in his head, the clinking of beers in the background and the gossipy laughter of Elle and JJ. 

Where’s all your game now, Morgan? 

The clinks fade into the crinkle of sheets in the darkness. 

And then…

Spencer’s back makes light contact with his hand. The soft fuzziness of the polyester meets his skin. He can feel the bobbles of a sweater well loved, he knows it inside and out. 

He lifts up his arm and slowly drapes it round Spencer’s waist, his hand comes to rest on his stomach. 

He can feel the soft rise and fall of his breathing, still too quick to be in dreamland. Spencer pulls himself in closer, his curls tickling Derek’s chin, an inch away from his back making contact with Derek’s chest. 

Derek holds his breath. 

It’s ten minutes later when Spencer’s breathing evens out, little snores and sighs that he’d never heard during one of his jet naps. 

He stays awake, forcing his eyes back open when they fall, trying to think of shocking things to keep his brain awake when it starts to power down. 

Gideon in a jacuzzi. 

His childhood dog as the star quarterback of the Kansas City Chiefs.  

Why would he succumb to sleep? Why waste this moment? 

It’s twenty minutes later when Spencer rolls into him, cheek settling over his chest, one arm curling up and tucked under his chin.  

It’s thirty five minutes later when he jolts slightly, a whimper escaping his lips. Derek just holds him closer, hushing him as Spencer unconsciously  buries his face into the crook of his neck. 

He can feel the soft puffs of air warming up his skin, if he didn’t have the man of his dreams asleep in his arms right now, he would’ve pinched himself to make sure this was all real. 

Spencer’s so close, Derek has to close one eye to see him properly, his lips parted in sleep, messy hair falling over a sharp cheekbone. Derek counts his lucky stars and pulls him in tighter. His arm wrapped snug around Spencer’s waist, feeling the borrowed fabric kiss his fingertips. 

He’s so fucked. 

It’s fifty minutes later when Spencer lets out a content sigh. 

“Now I’m… eighty-five percent less likely to…” Spencer mumbles, half-slurred in sleep.

It’s the last thing Derek hears before he finally lets himself drift off.

He thought Spencer would be awkward in the morning, all shy smiles and eyes glued to the floor.

Instead, the kid is smirking at him.

Green toothbrush dangling from the side of his mouth, foam gathering at the corners. He points at Derek like he’s caught him doing something embarrassing.

“What?” Derek says, voice half muffled from sleep. 

“Nothing,” Spencer says around a mouthful of mint and bristles, catching a bit of spit with the back of his hand.

“Why are you pointing and smiling like that then?” 

“I’m not!” He laughs. 

“Kid, wha—“ 

Derek finally reaches full consciousness… and realizes he’s hugging Spencer’s pillow to his chest.

He pushes it away like it was about to attack him, it lands on the floor with a soft thump. 

He hears Spencer laugh in the background whilst he’s glaring at the offending pillow. 

“No nightmares then, huh?” Derek mutters, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Statistically, I’d say I'm 67% less haunted.”

“Yeah?” Derek rubs his eyes. “So what’s your excuse for hogging the sheets?”

Spencer spits into the sink and grins at him through the mirror.

“I run cold, you run warm.” 

A beat of silence. 

Words rested on the tip of Derek's tongue. 

Do NOT flirt with your coworker, do NOT flirt with your coworker, do NOT flirt with—

“I wasn’t warm enough for you?” He says whilst getting up. Stretching his joints before crossing the small distance to the bathroom door. 

C’mon man, pull it together. 

Spencer laughs warmly. “No, maybe it’s because you’re old.”

“Okay kid, you’re like the freezer section at Blockbuster. Guess we’re even.”

Spencer’s smile slips for the first time that morning. He cocks his head like a puppy, hair flopping over his cheek. 

“The one that only has the freaky looking frozen pizzas?” Derek prompts. 

Spencer pulls a shirt from his go-bag. “What’s a Blockbuster?”

Derek stares at him. “You’re kidding.”

Spencer just blinks. “Sounds made up.”

“…Never mind, Reid.” 

“Okay then, Morgan.” 

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just—doesn’t. 

It’s five minutes of heavy silence before Derek finally breaks it, reaching over to wipe a smudge of toothpaste from the corner of Spencer’s mouth.

“Sorry, you just had a—”

“It’s okay!” Spencer interrupts quickly. “Um… thank you.”

Only then does Derek realize his hand is still there, thumb practically resting on Spencer’s bottom lip. He pulls it back in a hurry, turning to fiddle with the zipper on his bag.

“You wanna shower first?”

“I don’t really feel like being wet right now.” Spencer flops back onto the bed and turns on the TV. “Or worse—damp.”  

The ambient sound of channels changing fills the space for a minute, before he stops at a tense cooking competition. 

Derek grins. “Fair enough, stinks in here anyway.”

“Excuse me? First I’m a gas station gremlin—“

“Where the hell did you get gas station gremlin from?” Derek laughs. 

“—and then I’m a-a-a stinky, smelly, gross, disgusting gas station gremlin?” 

A 12 year old boy is heaving heavy sobs on the screen, staring at a destroyed flambé.

“You said, and I quote, ‘stop calling me Pretty Boy.’”

“I didn’t realise there had to be an alternative.” He sits up, facing Derek fully now. “A mean alternative.”

“Okay Mr. Waw—“ He was cut off when a fluffy pillow hit him square in the face. 

“Okay fine! Call me Pretty Boy!”

Spencer’s eyes went wide, his hand flying up to dig into the corner of his mouth, and that awkwardness he always knew was brewing came to the surface. 

Spencer scrambles off the bed, going straight for his go-bag.

“I’m gonna, um—get changed. In a different room. Or, like, you could change in the bathroom and I’ll stay here. Or I’ll go. I’ll just—”

“Man, what?” Derek stands, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s your room. I don’t even have a full change of clothes. I’m heading back to mine. See you at the precinct, alright?”

“Yup. Yes. Yeah.”

They find themselves paired up again, sent off to chase some lead from the sheriff's son. 

The officer they came with glances back at them. “I’ve got to give the sheriff a report. I’ll be back as soon as I can. You guys need anything?”

“Coffee would be nice,” Spencer replies, fiddling with his shirt sleeve. 

Derek wonders if that’s what Spencer did with the Cubs sweater. He’d taken it back to his own room that morning, analysed it like it was a piece of evidence. He’d scrutinised the fabric, smiling to no one whilst noticing the extra threads and frays on the end of the cuff. 

Derek smirks, shaking his head to return himself to reality. “He takes about a quart of sugar in it.”

As the officer began walking away, Spencer called after him, “Two teaspoons is fine.”

“You got it.” 

Spencer trailed after Derek, quiet for a beat before saying, “Morgan. I’m grateful you came over last night, I am. It’s just…”

Derek freezes, heart lurching to the bottom of his body. 

“We didn’t get to talk about it. You knew I didn’t want you to tell Hotch about my nightmares.”

He turns to face him, taking in the skittish doe eyes that refuse to meet his own. “Reid, that’s something they need to know about.”

Spencer’s eyes widen, and it’s in that very millisecond Derek realises he’s made a mistake. 

“What do you mean ‘they’?”

Shit. 

“What?” Derek tries. 

“You said they.”

He sucks in a breath. 

“Hotch and Gideon.”

“You told Gideon, too?” Spencer’s voice goes sharp. His hand grips his satchel, all tangled up in his purple scarf.

“Yeah,” Derek says slowly. “And it’s okay, kid.”

“What if they think I can’t do my job? What if they want to pull me off the team?” Spencer is already walking towards the house. 

“They won’t.” Derek calls after him. 

“Oh, yeah? How do you know that?”

“I just do.” Derek follows, blinking rapidly as if it’ll extinguish every image of Spencer that haunts him.

Bleeding out, blown to bits, trapped forever behind a patch of grass Derek can’t seem to get a grip on.  

Spencer’s just up ahead, hands moving wildly as he talks. 

“You had no right, man. I—I confided in you. You know, this is exactly what I get when I trust someone. It gets thrown back in my face.”

Derek closes the space between them. His fingers hook into his co-workers belt loop, tugging just enough to stop him. Spencer turns fast, gasping, and suddenly they’re an inch apart. 

Both their eyes widen. 

Don’t do it. 

Spencer’s eyes flick down to his lips. 

Do it. 

Derek swallows, hard. 

“Kid, I—“

Spencer exhales sharply and shakes his head. 

“I wanted your help, yours!” Spencer’s breath is warm on his face, he can feel each word. “Not Gideon’s. Not Hotch’s. I asked you be—“ 

“Mine started up again six months ago.” Derek’s grip on the belt loop tightens for a second before he lets go, taking a step back. 

Spencer freezes, puffing out his cheeks, something Derek sees him do in the rare moments where he doesn’t know quite what to say. 

“Yeah,” Derek repeats. “Mine.”

He leans back against the hood of Zizzo’s car, arms crossed, fixing his stare on a cloud that looks strangely similar to Clooney. 

“I’ve been dreaming about the long distance sniper case. The hospital, the scare in the park.” 

Derek exhales slowly, waiting for Spencer to catch on. For a long moment, all he hears is the wind rustling through the trees, the rumble of cars somewhere in the distance. 

“Me?” Spencer asks quietly.

“Yeah, you.”

They stare at each other, Derek can feel his heartbeat in his throat. 

He shakes his head. “That’s when they started again. Night after night.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Derek softens. “Don’t apologise,” he tentatively reaches out, placing a hand on Spencer’s elbow. “Seriously, that’s not why I’m telling you this.”

The younger agent's eyes shoot up to scan his face, wide with something he can’t quite identify. 

“I-I have them still. But they are easier for me to deal with.”

“What—“ Spencer clears his throat. “What did you do?”

“Gideon,” Derek says.

Spencer’s jaw drops in response, he looks around to make sure they’re alone before he leans in closer. 

“You cuddled with Gideon?!” Spencer shrieked, narrowing his eyes. 

Derek’s mouth falls open in an equal amount of shock. 

“Cuddled? No! Wait, cuddled? No…He just knew.”

Spencer smiles faintly, but waits.

“He sat me down. Talked me through it. Told me to trust you a little more,” He lightly shoves Spencer’s arm, forcing a small smile onto his face. “When they come, I know how to handle them better.”

Spencer looks at him intently, their first intense eye contact since Kitchen Nightmares was on. 

“How? What did he say?” He asks quietly. 

“He told me…” Derek takes a deep breath in. “He said ‘It’s okay to feel it.’”

Spencer furrows his brows in confusion. “Wha—“

The crunching of gravel and the hum of an engine interrupt him, parking up right in front of them.

“Did you find her?” Cory calls out, stumbling out of the front seat. “Cherish?”

“No, there’s nothing here.”

“Did you check the outhouse?”

“Outhouse?” Derek and Spencer exchange a look, and fall into a familiar routine. 

“Show us,” Derek begins to walk forward whilst Cory stumbles ahead, keeping one hand subtlety on his hip, fingers grazing his holstered gun at all times. 

The outhouse looks like a crime scene. All rotting wood and broken beer bottles shooting out of the dirt like weeds. 

He suddenly gets the strange thought that someone could probably turn this around. His head fills with budgets, shopping lists. lighting fixtures…

Please don’t be a body. 

Hammers and mallets and skylights. 

Not today. 

Morgan shines his flashlight beneath the outhouse. It lights up leaves, sticks and rotten wood, nothing to feed his nightmares. 

Satisfied, he jogs up the wooden stairs and pushes open the creaky door. 

He sweeps his flashlight across the room. The beam cuts through the dark, finding more brown leaves… then shoes… then legs… until he’s staring at a young girl's still face. 

Cherish.

He looks into her lifeless eyes and slowly shakes his head, stepping out of the building as quickly as he can, his eyes immediately searching for Spencer’s. The kid is a talented profiler, that’s no doubt. He seems to understand what he’s seen without a moment's hesitation.   

Cory approaches, stopping at the base of the stairs, Spencer follows closely his eyes still locked onto Derek’s. 

“She in there?” Cory asks.

Morgan walks past him in silence.

“Is she all right?”

“Cory, she’s in there.” 

Cory’s face crumples. “Is she dead?”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps moving. 

“She can’t be dead,” Cory murmurs, his voice breaking. Derek makes brief eye contact with Cory, whose eyes widen back at him. 

And suddenly, it all adds up in his head.

Cory knew where the body was. Cory inserted himself into the investigation. Cory told Spencer he’d read all the profiling books.

Spencer and Cory. Spencer. Cory. Currently standing next to each other under the nearby oak tree. 

Fuck.

“Reid,” Morgan says, voice steady. “I want you to go to the house and see if the deputies have come back.”

“What?” Reid frowns.

“We need the sheriff and the crime scene team here.”

“But—”

“Reid. Do it.”

Derek feels a warm surge in his chest as Spencer turns to sprint away. Relief, maybe. Because for once, Spencer’s not in the eye of the storm. Or because he trusts him without question.

Cory’s eyes flicker between the two of them, and before Derek can even take a footstep, Cory’s hands reach out to grab Spencer. 

“Reid! Reid!” Derek screams, he can feel his vocal cords strain. 

Cory lunges. He grabs Spencer around the neck, yanks him close, a gun now pressed to his temple. Derek gets his own gun out just as quick, breath shaking when he sees Spencer put his arms up.  

“Nice try, Agent.” 

“Cory.”

“This got all messed up.” Cory whines, tightening his grip around Spencer’s neck. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be with him. It was his run. He runs it every day, not her.”

“Cory, listen to me. We can fix this. But you’ve got to let Reid go.”

Cory shakes his head, moving Spencer’s body with the action. 

Derek feels his own hands start to shake, panic creeping into the edge of his mind. 

He exhales slowly, focusing on the rustle of the leaves swirling around his feet, the sound the ground makes when he steadies his foot into it. 

It’s all real. 

The hardness of his gun, the way it feels in his hands. 

But Spencer’s panicked eyes staring at him, that’s real too. 

Focus. 

“You don’t wanna do this, man.”

Wrong thing to say, the guy just shoves the gun harder against Spencer’s face. 

He watches the cheek he caressed last night, the one that was soft against the hotel pillow, is now yellowing with the force of the cold press of a gun. 

“I never meant to hurt her. But make no mistake, I will shoot your boy right now.”

The way the your boy affected his heart rate sickened him. 

“No, you won’t.”

The click of a safety being disengaged zips through the air, making its way into Derek’s brain, echoing around his head. 

Derek feels his grip on his gun slip, palms instantly gathering moisture. 

Spencer’s eyes grow wider, his face grows paler, every breath looks fought for. Derek feels sick. 

“Put the gun down,” Cory growls.

He lowers his weapon. He’d break every protocol, every shred of common sense for the Doctor in front of him. 

“OK, alright. You win. Please, you’ve won.”

Cory’s arm tightens around Spencer’s throat. He lets out a choked gasp in response, his arms scrabbling at the psychos grip. 

“Put it on the floor.” Cory yells. 

Derek abandons the gun on the ground, kicking it away from him like it’s an IED. Both Derek and Cory watch as it skids through the dirt, upending leaves and dandelions, until it hits a nearby tree. 

“You’re in control, Cory. Let him go.”

Spencer’s voice cuts in, trying to save himself with words as they’re choked out of him. “‘For the evil is man’s best force. Man must become better and eviler.’”

Derek watches every single movement, tracks the microexpressions on Spencer’s face. His winces of discomfort as the boy holding him controls his every breath. 

He makes a vow, then. Cory will go down for this.  

Spencer coughs. “T-There’s no—”

A wheeze interrupts him. His eyes blink rapidly.

The vein in his forehead—the one Derek usually associates with his focused face at a caseboard—bulges alarmingly.

“There’s no moral obligation for killing someone if you’re superior to them? But—”

He’s cut off again. His mouth opens, but this time no sound comes.

Derek wants to look away, this is not an image he wants burned into his brain. But he’ll be damned if he leaves Spencer to face this alone. His fists curl tighter, digging crescent-shaped marks into his palm, if this goes on a second longer, he’s going to bleed.

“What?” Cory prompts. 

His arm loosens slightly. Spencer gasps, sucking in as much air as he can.

“Nietzsche was speaking metaphorically about evolving as a species.”

Derek narrows his eyes, moving his gaze from Spencer’s rapidly paling face to Cory’ suddenly emotional eyes. “You’re just a horny kid who wanted to get rid of the cheerleader’s boyfriend.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!” Cory punctuates the sentence with another brutal squeeze of Spencer’s throat, the most awful sound falls out of Spencer’s lips then. A horrible choked cry that cuts off abruptly. 

“Cory, please.”  Derek pleads, his voice cracks, rising higher than it's ever been during a takedown. 

Images usually reserved for nighttime terrors begin to surge to the surface.

Cory squeezes out Spencer’s last breath.

Spencer falling limp, the grass and tree roots taking him for their own.

He imagines the rest of the team arriving too late. Hotch dragging him back from the dirt he’s clawing through. JJ and Elle sobbing into each other’s shoulders. 

Gideon would probably join him, digging and digging for Spencer until he stood waist deep in a grave. 

Oh God. Would he have to tell Garcia?

Just as Derek’s vision starts to blur, Spencer moves. In one final desperate  movement before the arm can tighten around his neck completely, Spencer tips his head back, slamming into Cory’ face with a sickening smack.

The movement surprises him enough that the gun finally leaves Spencer’s soft cheek. 

Derek moves fast, tackling them both. In the mess they’ve found themselves in on the ground, Derek takes one second to check for the rise and fall of Spencer’s breaths. One hand in the grass, one on his chest. 

Only then does Derek shift, rolling off and to the left. He plants his knees and straddles Cory, looking down at him with all the disgust he can muster.  

“C’mon,” Morgan grunts, landing a hard punch to Cory’s face. “Don’t fucking touch him.”

He glances at Spencer, he’s lying in the dirt as if it’s a plush mattress. He, ironically,  looks peaceful, rested. His curls splay out on the orange leaves, fingers curling around a stray branch. 

“You alright?” Derek says to someone who, quite obviously, isn’t alright.

Spencer’s eyes flicker open with a groan. 

“What happened?” Spencer wheezes out. 

“Him, this scumbag,” Derek rattles Cory around in his grip. “Bringing  us down here was way too much of a coincidence.”  

Spencer smirks and opens his mouth to reply, his eyes still half lidded. 

“Hey! No!” Derek scolds, “Save your voice, that must hurt real bad, baby boy.” 

The nickname slips out without him realising. Spencer either accepts it or is too out of it to recognise the words, he nods, cheek pressing into the ground. 

“I got that.” 

“Reid, just stop talking.”

“But did you have to tackle us both?” Spencer brought himself up, flicking leaves and dirt off of his shirt. “Again?” 

“Zip it, kid. Your throat—”

“Is this your way of finally making a move?” 

Derek stills, the Unsub is still wriggling around underneath him. He can hardly feel the urgency to get the kid to comply with the arrest. 

“You knew?”

“Yeah,” Spencer rasps. 

“Now it makes sense, you're both a pair of queer pigs? Pansies then?” Cory yells into the dirt, laughing maniacally.

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek catches Spencer half-conscious and rolling his eyes.

Derek silences him with a push to the head, tightening the cuffs. “Shut it, Cory.”

The scratchy texture of Cory’s shirt rubs irritatingly against his palm. The ridiculousness of the entire situation hits him then, and he can’t help but laugh breathlessly as he swings his head back around to Spencer.

“Because of what I told you? The nightmares?” 

“No, before that.” He shoots Derek a look as if he’s an idiot. “I’m a profiler.”

“Then what am I?”

“A teenager with a crush.”

“Okay, genius. What does that make you?”

“A profiler with a crush.” 

He stares down at the cuffed wrists below him, catching the occasional glimpse of his distorted, shell shocked reflection. 

“You…This whole time?”

Spencer mumbles something back, eyes closing shut before opening again. Derek leans over as much as he can, tapping his cheek and waving a hand in front of his face. 

“Hey, kid. C’mon, don’t fall asleep on me now. Gimme some stats.” 

Derek’s concerned trance is broken by the unsub coughing into the leaves, his legs uselessly trying to bring himself up to get away. 

“Fuck, wait…Just hold on, Spencer.” He says, moving to straddle Cory again. 

“Calm down, I’ll be fine.” Spencer mumbles. 

“See! Your boyfriend said he’s fine! Now get off me!” Cory snaps, still wiggling around like it would ever work. 

He only stills when they all hear sirens in the distance, red and blue lights breaking through the tree line. Hotch and Elle rush over to help him with Cory. Gideon and JJ kneel down beside Spencer,  pulling him out of the dirt, brushing leaves out of his hair and steadying him when he stumbles. 

Not without protest, which Derek can still hear over Cory being read his rights. 

Derek finally hands Cory off to the LEOs, directing his vision towards the ambulance in the clearing. Spencer’s shivering in the back, shock combined with the eastern coast’s answer to Spring. 

His arms still tingle with the lingering feel of Spencer’s waist, the phantom sensation being goosebumps to the surface. The grass scraping his arms, Spencer’s body pressed tight between him and the ground, both of them breathing hard and close, it’s all so painfully familiar. 

For a second he forgets where they are. The antiseptic smell of a hospital enters his nose. 

It might be different this time. 

He spins the words around his head over and over as he starts to walk towards the ambulance. 

He knows the likelihood of Spencer remembering their conversation is low, considering he passed out immediately afterwards. 

Each step he takes towards the emergency vehicle makes his heart backflip. He breathes in through his nose, and slowly out through his mouth. 

He stops in front of him.

Moment of truth. 

Spencer’s eyes snap to his, not breaking contact as the paramedics check his breathing, watching Derek the entire time while they measure his lung capacity.

“You’re so annoying.” Derek says softly to Spencer, watching as he completes his final breath into the handheld machine.

“You love me.” He replies with a smirk the minute they remove the device. The paramedic fills something out on a form, leaving to go report his findings to a superior. 

“So you remember that.” Derek says, pushing air out of his nose. 

Spencer smiles down woozily at his feet, kicking his converses against the back of the ambulance again and again. 

“Pretty boy,” Derek whispers, leaning down to meet his eyes. The unspoken are you okay? hanging off of every syllable. They’ve been here before, checking in with each other with looks and nods during cases and briefings. 

Spencer shoots him an annoyed stare, but it’s softened by the tired glaze in his eyes.

“I’m literally fine. The medic just said I need to rest. But I think they say that just to say something.” He says, gulping in a breath and absently scratching at his neck whilst he speaks. “The odds of any injury because of Cory’s actions are actually only around 11%, whilst you tackling me has a higher chan—“

“Rest then, hm? Both your vocal cords and the rest of you, I assume?”

Spencer glares at him again, head flopping against the edge of the ambulance door. 

“You still mad at me?” 

Spencer shakes his head, leaning further against it. 

Derek remembers the same movement hitting the soft hotel pillows last night, rolling into his chest, nuzzling into his neck.  

Before he can even think to stop himself, he’s reaching forward, pulling him in, slipping an arm round his shoulders before pulling back again, assessing Spencer’s face. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” 

“I know.” Spencer whispers back. “Do you like tackling me or something?” 

Derek feels his face heat up, his heart stumbling over itself. 

“Pretty boy, I think the real question is, do you get into situations where I have to tackle you on purpose?” 

Spencer blushes, biting his lower lip and averting his eyes. 

There it is, all the confirmation he’s ever needed. Derek feels something weightless and bright float up in his chest. He tries and fails to suppress his smile, very aware he looks like Desiree staring at Usher’s Tiger Beat front cover. 

But Spencer’s smiling too, it's shy and excited and he wants to memorise every inch of this image, the ambulance and redness around his throat included. 

He runs his hands down Spencer’s front, wiping the dust and stray leaves off of him. He pauses, his hands freezing on Spencer’s chest. 

“Romeo, what do we have here?” Derek murmurs, resting Spencer’s tie against his palm. “This tie is pressed!”

Spencer’s cheek flush an even brighter pink, he pulls back a little bit, clearing his throat. “Yeah, I started pressing them when I saw the way you looked at me during briefings.” 

Derek tightens his grip on the tie, tugging him closer until their noses brush, lips barely touching.

“I—I thought it was all for nothing when you didn’t want to help with my nightmares,” Spencer mumbles, words almost lost against Derek’s lips.

They’re so close, he can feel the slight shake of Spencer’s breath, the shiver when a gust of wind blows past them.   

Reluctantly, he loosens his grip on the tie, trying his hardest to ignore Spencer’s hum of protest. He leans up to reach behind Spencer’s head, pulling out a blanket from the drawer. 

It's soft but thin, a light blue large scrap of fabric rather than a blanket. He hesitates, distractedly picking at a thread. 

Spencer’s looking up at him with those glassy eyes, blinking slowly with his brows furrowed. 

“Get some rest, Spencer.” Derek wraps the blanket around his shoulders, tucking it into itself, adjusting it slightly so the soft fuzz covers Spencer’s trembling lips. 

He sits beside him, rubbing Spencer’s arm through the blanket. Spencer leans into the touch, head lolling gently against Derek’s chest.

In the takedown, the gel dislodged from Spencer’s hair, leaving most of the strands to curl naturally, brown locks falling softly against Derek’s skin and tickling his neck.

“I’ve never seen the top of your head like this,” Derek murmurs.

“What?” Spencer mumbles sleepily, shifting just a little.

“You’re the same height as me, so—” 

“One, I’m taller than you,” Spencer interjects, voice muffled by a yawn.

Derek scoffs. 

“Two,” Spencer continues, “you told me literally last week that I’m always sitting down.”

“Wait—”

“Also? Rude.”

“I just meant—”

“And! Not true!” Spencer finally looks up at him then, doe eyes blinking up at him, pink lips puckered into a pout. 

Derek looks around, his eyes only finding trees and  the bored-looking medic scribbling on a clipboard. That’s it. They’re alone enough.

He exhales hard, leaning down until Spencer’s breath warms his lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Statistically,” Spencer whispers, lips brushing his jaw, “not the worst way to go.”

The air is bitingly cold, dead leaves swirl up around their feet whenever a gust of wind blows through the air. But Spencer’s breath is warm on Derek’s mouth, and his cheeks are flushed from more than just the weather.

Derek caresses his cheekbone, pausing to look around again. 

“Just do it.” Spencer smiles up at him. “Who are you looking for?”

“The team, I—We’re at work.” Derek mutters, glancing over his shoulder in search of Hotch or Gideon. 

He hums in response, still idly kicking against the ambulance. 

“Would you run away with me if I asked?” Derek teases.

“No, I've got work on Monday.” Spencer says, completely serious. 

Derek breathes out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. 

Spencer leans up further, full lips once again brushing against his own as he murmurs, “Besides, even the Unsub knew.” 

Your boy.

Derek smirks and closes the gap. 

He tastes like caffeine and artificial orange, the blanket Spencer was wrapped in drops to pool around his waist when he brings his arms up to sling around Derek’s neck. 

He swallows the other man’s content sighs, wrapping one arm around the back of his head to pull him in impossibly closer. 

He pours every ounce of affection and relief into the kiss, licking up into Spencer’s mouth when a distant train horn cuts through the wind and reminds him of their last case. 

I love you. 

His hand slides into Spencer’s hair, fingers catching slightly on the remains of gel as he sucks at his bottom lip. 

Spencer moans into his mouth, tightening his grip around Derek’s neck. 

He feels goosebumps rise beneath Spencer’s arms, feels a shiver tremble through his body. His hand drifts down from Spencer’s hair to gently stroke his neck. 

When Spencer flinches—just slightly— Derek pulls away slowly, staring at Spencer’s face for a long moment. Feels his cheek heat beneath his fingertips, watches the way his eyebrows furrow when a particularly chilly gust of wind slices past. Notices, for the first time, the slight green hue in his eyes.

This is all real. 

“I don’t think that’s what the medic ordered,” Derek says breathlessly, tucking Spencer back into the blanket, wrapping it snug around his body, up to his chin. He sneaks in another kiss before Spencer’s lips disappear into the fleece.

“I’m a doctor, remember?”

“I didn’t want it to be like this…I should’ve kissed you in the hotel room, or the SUV, or the break room, or maybe taken you out to a fancy Italian dinner.”

“We have time.” 

Derek chuckles, bringing one hand up to rest in Spencer’s hair, lightly scratching his scalp. “Definitely not mad at me anymore then?” 

“No, unless you kissed Gideon whenever you had a nightmare.” 

“Shut up.” Derek says, cuffing him lightly on the side of the head. “Any more statistics for me?”

“No,” Spencer yawns again, stretching out like a cat before nestling back into the blanket. 

Derek laughs. “There’s a first time for everything.” 

The weight leaning against him gets heavier and heavier, until the same soft sighs from last night fall out of Spencer’s mouth. 

There he goes. 

New record. 

“What the f—“ Elle starts, walking up seemingly out of nowhere with the rest of the team. 

“Shhh! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” JJ whisper-hisses, slapping her arm.

Hotch raises his eyebrows. “Morgan.” 

“He was tired!” Derek blurts. 

“Mentoring? Really?” JJ laughs. 

“Oh my god.” Elle’s phone flash momentarily blinds him. 

“Don’t send that to Penelope, don’t.” 

“You’re going to wake him up, calm down Agent.” Hotch gives the team a rare smile before turning away. 

“Send that to me.” Hotch adds to Elle as he heads towards the LEOs. 

“C’mon man!” Derek hisses. 

“You heard the boss, hush up.” Elle crosses her arms, smirk permanently glued to her face. “Garcia says ‘finally,’ by the way.” 

“Casanova,” JJ whisper-yells, her head tilting towards the medics. “They might want their ambulance back soon.” 

The girls giggle and stumble away, he can only hope to god that they aren’t running off to Gideon. 

He has half a mind to go tell them all to be quiet, but another soft sigh from Spencer has him leaning back against the ambulance frame.

Holding on just that little bit tighter. 

“You’re still here?” Spencer mumbles, still half asleep. 

“Of course.” Derek adjusts the blankets again, tucking the side that keeps falling off of Spencer’s shoulders into his neck. “Are you any less haunted?” 

“98.5%.” He murmurs, cheek squished against Derek’s chest. 

“Oh yeah? How do I get that extra 1.5%?”

Spencer mumbles a response that Derek doesn’t hear. Drifting off into sleep again, a small smile on his lips.

epilogue 

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

Spencer stares up at the ceiling of Derek’s childhood bedroom. 

The outline of old glow-in-the-dark stars is still visible, little snippets of childhood wonder that have been ripped down or fallen off in time. 

He sighs, trying to focus on Derek’s soft breathing and occasional snore instead of the intricate details of his boyfriend's younger years. 

He wishes he could do that, have his head hit the pillow and be out instantly. The case that led them to Chicago was rough. Rough enough that Hotch allowed them to stay at the Morgan’s, instead of insisting they all stay together at the hotel like he usually does.  

The Cubs sweater is warm and fuzzy on his skin, and Derek’s boxers sit comfortably loose around his hips. He hasn’t packed his own sleepwear in five years. Every case since Mcallister, he’s sat on the end of a bed, waiting patiently for Derek to reveal which item of his clothing Spencer will be wearing that night. 

It brightens up the cases, and it brightens up Derek. So he doesn’t mind leaving his worn in college shirts back in DC. 

The bed is smaller than the one in their own apartment. Derek’s curled into him, head resting on Spencer’s shoulder, arm slung over his waist. 

Two types of grief hit him at once, firmly anchoring him into the land of the living. Sleep remains just an inch out of reach. 

First, the way his ankles peek out of the duvet make him grieve for a childhood he never had, a home in Vegas long since sold to a young family from Detroit. They gushed about escaping the cold, marveled at how the backyard drifted into nothingness, the endless desert stretching out behind their new home.

Second, the cartoon figurines and the sporting awards stacked into the corners and shelving units of Derek’s bedroom make him mourn for Derek’s childhood, too. 

He spots a first place football trophy laying sideways behind a Bears bobblehead figurine. It makes his heart stutter and his eyes sting. 

Derek jerks in his arms, Spencer can see his eyes squeezed shut in the diffused lamp light that filters through the room. 

They have a routine for this, even though the edges are less rigid when they are in someone else’s space, not in their two story house out in the DC suburbs. 

Derek sits up suddenly, hands grappling to hold on tight to the sheets. He’s gulping in air like a starving man, his eyes flicking around the room repeatedly. 

“Derek, Derek, Derek,” Spencer whispers soothingly, sitting up right alongside him. His bad knee twinges at the slight change in position. 

“Case, or something else?”

A code of sorts, changing over time as different tragedies plagued them.

“Eyes or something else?” 

“Shed or something else?” 

“Knee or something else?” 

“Something else.” Derek responds roughly. 

He knew what this meant, he knew how to navigate nights like these. Even in the unfamiliar environment, Spencer got to work. 

He removes the fleece blanket resting on top of the duvet, the bedroom all decked out for a Chicago winter by Mrs. Morgan, even though their heater rattles through the room at full force. 

Spencer wraps it around Derek, tucking it loosely around him, leaving his face untouched by the fabric.

Derek smiles weakly at him, “Just because it works on you, doesn’t mean it’s gonna work on me.” 

“Okay, Derek.” 

Spencer pulls him in, resting his head on Derek’s. He can feel the softness of the blanket and the warmth of his boyfriend settle into his chest. 

“Seriously, I only made sure we had this blanket here for you, I’m gonna…” Derek’s voice drops off as his head lolls into Spencer, he picks it back up again in an instant. 

“I’m just gonna watch some football reruns.” He mutters.

“Okay, Derek.” Spencer smirks, rubbing Derek’s cheek in a light circle with his finger. 

“Yeah, can you…can you grab the remote for me, baby?” 

Spencer holds back a laugh, the Morgan’s have one TV, and it’s a whole flight of stairs away.

“Sure, Derek.” He whispers into the top of his boyfriend’s head, feeling Derek nestle into his arms. In five minutes, sleep softly takes them both.

‧₊˚ ☽ ⋅