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“The past can't hurt you any more, not unless you let it.” - Alan Moore
“The only way you could look more like FBI is if you were wearing those vest-things you have,” had been Fran’s sentiment as Morgan and Reid left her house. The words were in his mind as they sat in the car outside of Morgan's high school, twenty years after he’d left it. Reid was picking a piece of thread off his knee and Morgan was straightening his tie, stalling.
“You ready?” Reid prompted.
“Yeah.” Morgan shrugged. He hadn't felt nervous, at least not until they were walking up to the school doors, with the ‘class of ‘88' banner pinned above it. Reid, his hands in pockets, was looking around with interest at the surroundings.
Morgan noted the lines of blue lockers framing the hallway, how kept it look compared to when he had been there. The paint job looked pretty new, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been repainted with the reunion in mind.
“Lockers used to be green.”
“They were plain metal at my high school,” Reid offered conversationally as they followed the signage towards the gym.
“Hi there!”
They were being flagged down by a woman wearing a name-tag and hovering around a registration table outside the gym doors, the sound of late 80s music and chatter coming from within.
“Hi, who are—” a pause, and then after a beat, “Derek Morgan?”
“Hi Mary,” he said, confident she hadn’t noticed him checking her name-tag to place a face to a name. He didn’t remember who she was.
“I’ve got a name-tag for you here.” She offered him the sticky label, which he pressed onto his jacket. “And you are?” she asked politely as she turned to Reid.
“Actually I didn’t attend this school, I’m the designated ‘plus one’ attendants were allowed to bring.”
“Oh, no worries! Have a good time, Derek, most people are already here.”
“Thank you, Mary.” He nodded in her direction as the two of them pushed on through the double doors.
The gym was decked out in such a way it reminded Morgan of many high school dances long past; tables of weak punch and buffet food, streamers and balloons and a DJ playing an eighties soundtrack, as a considerable crowd mingled; he hadn't expected this many people to turn up after twenty years.
“So,” Reid said under his breath, not looking at him, “how many of your female classmates did you have sex with, again? This could be interesting.”
Morgan chuckled, peeling off the sticky name-tag he’d put on moments before, rolling it into a ball and stashing it in his jacket pocket. He would much prefer to make his own introduction, and he was a little intrigued as to whether any more people would recognise him.
It didn’t take long; several women looked at him appreciatively, trying to work out who he had been, whether he'd grown into his looks or aged gracefully. The first to approach was a black woman with long, straight hair and a sparkly purse under her arm, extending a neatly manicured hand. Rochelle, he recalled before his eyes flickered to her name tag to confirm.
“Derek Morgan?” She smiled at him as he shook her hand, eyelids heavy. She didn’t even glance at Reid.
“Rochelle.” He grinned easily, recalling brief social encounters from a shared circle of friends.
“Well, look at you,” she cooed. “The years have been good to you.” Still holding his hand, her other lifted to squeeze his bicep. “Very good. Wow. What do you do?”
“I work for the FBI,” he said easily. “We both do.” Her reaction was the usual; surprised and impressed, though she still didn’t pay Reid any attention. Morgan tried not to set his jaw in the face of the snub to Reid.
“Really? Wow. Do you—” she paused, wiggling her head a little, communicating the predictable nature of what he knew she was going to ask, “do you have a badge?”
He reached into his jacket and retrieved it, flipping it open for her to see, and withdrawing it before she could touch it.
“Wow. Who knew someone from our class would end up in the FBI?”
“What do you do?” he asked conversationally.
“Retail management,” she said. “High-end fashion out of Chicago.”
“Ah, you help women feel beautiful,” he said easily; he knew it took more than clothes for beauty, but he didn’t like the idea that she might feel somehow embarrassed by her own career in the wake of what was often the ‘FBI bombshell’. While he'd definitely wanted to flash his badge a little and show off, he had nothing against her, and no motivation for inspiring bad feelings in her. It seemed to work, because she smiled warmly.
“I guess so.” Another pause, where she leaned back a little and considered him. “I should be going—” she waved her hand, “it’s been nice talking to you Derek. We should chat later.”
He turned to Reid as she walked away, and the man’s arms were folded over his chest and his eyes on him, one eyebrow perfectly arched. Morgan smiled apologetically.
“How’s that invisibility thing working out for you?” he teased gently.
Reid smiled and shrugged. His eyes flickered over Morgan’s shoulder, and then hooked a lock of hair behind his ear.
“I’m going to go get us punch.”
Morgan didn’t have to wonder for long why Reid had made the excuse; it was another woman eager to reintroduce herself. This time he certainly recognised her, she looked almost exactly the same as he remembered her, only plus twenty years and this time his hand wasn’t up her skirt.
“Derek Morgan, is that really you?”
“Crystal.” He smiled and accepted the twin kisses to each of his cheeks, and she flashed a grin at him. “Long time no see.”
“I’ll say. You’re looking great.”
“So are you,” he said genuinely.
“I wasn’t going to come to this,” she said, throwing her hair back over one shoulder. “I mean it’s pretty lame, right? But now I’m kinda glad.”
If the flirting hadn’t been obvious, the way she put her body closer and touched his arm would have clued him in.
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to reconnect with people,” he said easily, but dismissively, sidestepping her advancing attempts. He had perhaps been too quick to consider the idea of people coming to their reunion just to hook up as something confined to television and airport romance novels. “Maybe we’ll talk again later?”
“Sure.” Morgan nodded, not sure he’d take up her offer. Reid reappeared with two plastic cups of punch
“So, did you have sex with her?”
“You know I’m not that fast, baby,” he muttered, and they exchanged a grin. “But we got to third base when I was in tenth grade.”
“How many of these women did you sleep with?” Reid asked over the top of his cup.
“I really didn’t start getting my game on until I got into college. I—”
He had spotted a figure striding toward him that he most certainly recognised. Tall, white and broad, still built like the linebacker he had been in school, Mike Jenkins had tormented Morgan throughout elementary school, and right into high school until he’d joined the football team.
It had mostly stopped, although they had never been friends, and an exchange after a game stuck in his mind; it hadn’t been the first time Morgan had been called a nigger, and it wouldn’t be the last, but the memory of the other’s glee at his anger in response rose in his mind with frightening clarity.
Spencer seemed to have picked up on his sudden tenseness, because he could feel him watching him minutely.
“Derek Morgan!” Mike said loudly, not extending a hand as he came to a stop in front of the other, an inch taller, somewhere wider and heavily, up close a little less muscle than Morgan had assumed. “If it isn’t the star quarterback. How you doing, man?”
“Mike,” he said without answering the question, immediately aware he was likely going to try and one-up him at every turn, “what are you doing these days?”
“Coaching football,” he said proudly. “Chicago Soldiers. Number three in the league, not a single loss this season.”
“Congratulations.” Morgan nodded diplomatically.
“I heard you were a cop.” Mike went on, casting a judging eye up and down him. “You made sergeant yet?”
“No, I—”
“Aaah, shame. Affirmative action can’t do everything for you, eh?” A belly laugh, and Morgan saw out of the corner of his vision Reid’s eyes shifting from him to Mike and back, his body language stiffening.
“I’m an FBI agent,” Morgan said coolly.
“Oh,” Mike nodded knowingly, “what, investigating the banks and stuff?”
“I’m part of the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit,” his tone was off-hand, ready to use his ace. “We catch serial killers.”
It was a simplified assessment, but it was worth it for the small victory of seeing Mike unable to hide that he was impressed before he forced himself back into nonchalance. His eyes slid sideways to Reid.
“Who’s your friend?” The disdain was clear, and Morgan bit back the urge to defend Reid’s honour from judgement. The man didn’t need protecting like that.
“This is my partner, doctor Spencer Reid,” he said instead.
“Your partner in the FBI?”
“We’re more of a team.”
Morgan smiled, slipping his arm around Reid’s waist. Reid’s eyebrows twitched upwards in surprise, but then he leant easily into the contact, putting his own hand on Morgan’s back.
“But ‘partner’ is also accurate.”
“I—um,” Mike made a sound like his brain was broken, and then simply turned and walked away.
“Rude,” Morgan commented. Reid chuckled and leaned closer, slipping his other arm around Morgan’s middle, moving them into an embrace. “That was pretty satisfying.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to draw attention to our relationship,” Reid said evenly.
“What? I’m not ashamed of us,” Morgan said, watching as people glanced their way and sipping at his glass of weak fruit punch.
“I know,” Spencer said. “I just didn’t know whether you’d want to make it a focus point of your exchanges with former classmates.”
“C’mon, these things are all about showing off.” Morgan grinned. “And you’re pretty damn impressive.”
As they mingled, Morgan was recognised by a lot people barely having to introduce himself. He was surprised he'd left that much of an impression really; Morgan had made very few lasting connections there, no long-term friendships until he’d gone to college.
Reid was eating a canapé of some kind – his fifth or sixth – as a portly black man approached Morgan, smiling broadly.
“Derek!”
He clapped him on the arm and Morgan responded in kind, recognising Tyrone. They’d been good friends throughout school, even the first year at different colleges and then lost touch. “Damn, time’s been kinder to you than me, eh?”
“Hey man!”
Morgan held his fist aloft and the other bumped his against it. The other man’s eyes drank him in, noticing the hand lingering on the small of Reid’s back.
“This your boy?” Tyrone asked, smile remaining genuine, if just a little surprised.
“My better half, dude. Doctor Spencer Reid.”
“Doctor?” Tyrone offered his hand to Reid, who gulped down his mouthful of food and shook it. “You married up, man.”
“Actually I’m not a medical doctor,” Reid began, “although I do hold doctorates in mathematics, chemistry and engineering, and undergraduate degrees in psychology, sociology, and philosophy.”
“What you doing with this idiot, then?” He gestured a thumb at Morgan, but his tone was fond.
“Also, not married yet,” Morgan thought to add.
“No? Where you living, ain’t it legal yet?”
“Virginia, nah, we ain’t got anything except a constitutional amendment against it.”
“That sucks. It’ll happen soon though. Dude I work with in Vermont just got married. To another dude, I mean.”
“Vermont?”
“Yeah, I got a garage, three kids and an ex-wife out there. How’s the FBI treating you? I’ve seen your name in print a couple of times.”
“It’s good, man.”
“I—” Tyrone nodded, as if steeling himself, “I heard about Buford.”
Morgan kept his face plain, but his throat tightened; he’d known some people would have heard about it. He’d never released a statement but many of the papers had run with the assumption that Morgan had been a victim of the man too.
“Yeah.” He nodded shortly.
“You caught the bastard.” He clapped Morgan on the arm again.
“Yeah.” Morgan nodded again, not feeling at all relaxed although he forced his face and his shoulders into some shadow of it.
“You said hello to the rest of the team?” Tyrone went on, eager to move on from the conversation. “Most of them are here.”
“Oh yeah. Including Mike.”
They shared a look and a laugh, glancing across the room to where Mike was boasting loudly about his football team.
“Funny how some things don’t change,” Tyrone commented.
“And now some things do.” Morgan nodded, sparing a smile for Reid.
The DJ began showing yearbook photos on a projector, and beer emerged from somewhere. He'd spotted both Rochelle and Crystal again, and was not feeling like having to dodge their advances. He leaned in to put his mouth near Reid's ear.
“Let's bounce.”
They left quietly, without any substantial goodbyes, making their way out through the hallways and into the parking lot. Reid had left with several canapés on a few napkins, held aloft on his hand. Reid started walking away from the direction Morgan's car was in.
“Where you going?” Morgan asked, jogging a couple of steps to catch up. Reid pointed out a pristine red sports car he was striding towards.
“That's Mike the Racist's car. Bugatti Veyron, luxury model, typical pick for a showboating alpha with a complex.”
“Good profile.”
“I also overheard him bragging about it to anybody that would listen.”
Reid had come to a stop by the car, and seemed to be considering it. After a short moment, he took one of the canapés and a napkin, and smushed it onto the driver-side wind shield, smearing it around and making an absolute mess of the glass.
“Spencer!” Morgan gasped, but he could feel the grin pulling at his mouth.
“Come on,” Reid said, leading Morgan at a brisk pace back towards their car.
“Why'd you do that?” Morgan was laughing when Reid drew up close to him, lifting a little canapé to his mouth and feeding it to him insistently.
“I wanted to punch him,” Spencer said, thumb brushing a crumb away from the edge of Morgan's mouth.
“Get in the car, baby!” Morgan chuckled around the mouthful.
By the time they'd driven away, Reid was tucking into the food he hadn't used for vandalism.
“Mom’s gonna feed us when we get in, y'know.”
“I’ll have room.”
“Where do you even put it, pretty boy?” Morgan grinned. “She loves that about you, you know. You always eat so much of her cooking.”
The short drive home was quiet, mainly because Reid was eating the food he’d taken from the reunion, scanning Chicago in the evening through the car window. He looked beautiful in the half-light of the city. When they parked up in front of Fran’s apartment Reid turned in his seat instead of opening the door, and Morgan unbuckled his seatbelt and waited for whatever Reid had to say.
“Derek.”
“Yeah?”
He expected some question as to whether he was okay, considering the brief mention of Buford that had occurred with Tyrone, or the not so subtle racism from Mike, or even the unwelcome flirting from former classmates.
“When you were talking to Tyrone, rather than just correcting him on the fact we’re not married, you specified that we’re not yet.”
Morgan couldn’t read the face; he wasn’t sure if he was passively considering him or deliberately keeping his face empty.
“I know it’s not like we need each other’s healthcare or anything,” Morgan said hesitantly. “Or even that it’s ever been a goal, to get married. I just... I didn’t want to rule it out. One day, when it’s legal, we might want to. I know we don’t need it to be happy, I just. I dunno.”
He grinned sheepishly and shrugged, but Reid’s eyes remained trained on him.
“There’s a lot of critique to be made of marriage as a social and economic institution,” he said finally.
Morgan laughed, because it was just what he’d come to expect from him; it was one of the many reasons he loved him.
“The way it’s positioned as an expectation of romantic relationships is proven to be flawed in the rates of divorce and spousal abuse. I didn’t have the most positive model for marriage, it’s likely influenced the way in which I perceive it.”
“Yeah.” Morgan smiled, giving another little shrug.
“But, if you asked me to marry you,” Spencer continued softly, “I’d say yes.”
Reid didn’t look away as he tucked his hair behind his ear, waiting for Morgan to speak. Morgan could still feel his heart beating fast in his chest.
“Spencer, will you marry me? One day, when it’s legal, if we decide to—”
“Yes I will.” Reid grinned, moving forward across the seat and right up against Morgan, taking his face in both of his hands and kissing him. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Morgan returned, resting his forehead against Reid’s, while they just grinned giddily at each other for a few long moments.
Finally they parted, making to get out of the car.
“Let’s hope my mom doesn’t find out about the marrying thing. She’ll never let it go until she’s forced us down the aisle.”
“I can picture it now,” Reid smiled, waiting for Morgan on the sidewalk.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight,” he said as he found Reid's hand, their fingers lacing together.
“It was interesting. Maybe even interesting enough for me to consider going to my own when it comes. But only if you come with me.”
“You wanna show me off?”
“I kinda do.”
”I try not to live in the past, he thought, but who knows, sometimes the past lives in me.” - Jamie Ford