Chapter Text
[Stop and wait a sec
When you look at me like that, my darlin', what did you expect?
I'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck
Or I did last time I checked]
There’s a lot to like about Spencer Reid.
There’s his hair. The dirty blond strands that curl gently under his chin, frame the sharp angles of his cheekbones. It’s soft betweer Derek’s fingers, tangled most of the time.
Derek likes the way Spencer pushes it behind his ear when he's reading, or the way he plays with it when he’s thinking. He likes the way Spencer pulls it in a bun when he sleeps or when he’s concentrating on something, bent over books that seem to weigh more than him.
There are his clothes. He likes Spencer's clothes a lot. Their taste is so diametrically opposed, but he likes the way Spencer dresses.
(By far more than he should.)
He likes that Spences likes purple. He likes the softness of Spencer’s cardigans. He likes the way the sleeves of them sometimes fall past his fingertips. He likes how tight all Spencer’s pants are. He likes Spencer’s glasses. He likes that Spencer looks like a goddamn librarian half the time.
There is his mouth.
Spencer’s mouth is soft. He likes the plumpness of his lips. He likes the way they stretch when Deren makes him laugh, make him smile.
(He loves Spencer’s smile.)
He likes the way Spencer tastes too, of coffee and sugar and cigarettes.
(Familiar, comforting.)
(Spencer tastes like home.)
Sometimes, God help him, he even likes the way Spencer smokes. He likes the way he holds a cigarette between his fingers, the way he flicks the ash off. He likes the way the smoke curls around his lips when he exhales, the intrinsic elegance when he brings it to his mouth, fingers pressing against his lips for a blissful, eternal second. He likes the way Spencer rolls his eyes at him when Derek tells him to quit, the cheeky smirk when he catches Derek staring.
There are his hands. Dereks likes Spencer’s hands a lot too.
He likes how long his fingers are. He likes that there’s almost always a smudge of ink somewhere on his hands. He likes how they wrap around a warm mug, the way they move along a page together with his eyes. He likes the way he gesticulates when he speaks, almost knocking things over in an effort to get more information out of himself, like he’d die if he doesn’t say it all right now.
He likes the way he’s so gentle with everything he touches, like every single thing in this horrible world is worth cherishing.
(Even Derek Morgan himself.)
He likes the way Spencer touches him. He likes that Spencer likes to run his fingers over his shoulders, down his arms. He likes that Spencer often traces invisible lines on his skin, circles and symbols that bring the sky to Derek’s body.
(“What is it that you’re always drawing, pretty boy?”
‘Constellations.’)
(Spencer had smiled, and Derek’s heart had almost stopped.)
He likes that Spencer touches him the same way he touches antique books when they go to the library.
(Reverence, adoration, veneration.)
There are all the things he does, the ones that make him odd and weird and quirky and Spencer. He likes that Spencer’s socks don’t match. He likes that he wears his watch over his sleeve because he doesn’t like the feeling of metal on his skin, but also won’t buy a watch with a leather band because ‘it’s my watch, Morgan, it’s the one I’ve always had, I’m not gonna change it now’ . He likes that he bleaches his entire apartment every two weeks because he’s got a thing for germs, while simultaneously bitching about bacteria developing antibiotic resistance. He likes that he has a serious sweet tooth, and that his favorite dessert is a chocolate cake that a tiny bakery does down his street. He likes that he doesn’t like to drive, but loves being a passenger princess.
(And he loves how affronted Spencer always looks when Derek calls him that.)
There’s a lot to like about Spencer Reid, and Derek could absolutely spend hours thinking about all the things he likes about Spencer Reid and not get bored, but then he’d never make it to the things he loves about Spencer Reid.
There’s a lot to love about Spencer Reid.
(Sometimes, Derek thinks that there might be too much to love about Spencer Reid, and it makes him feel a little crazy, because he doesn’t know what to do with all of it, where to put it.)
He loves Spencer’s eyes.
He loves how big they are, how they light up when he gets to list off numbers and obscure facts. He loves how open they look when they wake up together, in the early morning light. He loves how sometimes, when it’s just them and their clothes have been lost to the floor, Spencer’s eyes seem to be made of molten gold.
(He’d happily spend hours staring in those eyes of his.)
He loves Spencer’s body.
He loves the hidden strength of it. He loves the way Spencer moves, clumsy and unsteady, like he expects the floor to crumble under his feet. He loves the way his back arches when Derek fucks him. He loves the way Spencer’s waist fits so perfectly between his hands.
He loves the scars in the crook of his elbows, proof that Spencer survived .
He loves the way Spencer is alive.
(Always moving, always talking, always in motion, burning from the inside out like the brightest of the stars.)
He loves that Spencer’s hands are permanently cold, that somehow his entire body is, even under several layers of clothes. He likes that he himself always runs hot, and that together they make the perfect temperature under the blankets.
He loves how somehow, Spencer’s body, with all its jagged edges and sharp angles, fits perfectly against his own uneven scars.
(A small miracle, an improbability, and a reality all the same.)
He loves Spencer Reid.
He loves how he’s always tired, the way he can fall asleep anywhere, the way he lives off naps because at heart, he’s an insomniac.
He loves that Spencer doesn’t get jokes and misses social cues.
He loves how kind Spencer is. He loves that he loves to help people, that he’d do anything for those he cares about.
(Even if it means sacrificing himself in the process.)
(That, Derek doesn't love.)
He loves that Spencer is sweet, so, so sweet, and that he wants to be, he can be an absolute bitch too.
He loves the darkness of Spencer Reid too. He couldn't love Spencer and not love the darkness too.
He loves the bad days, the days when Spencer isn’t quite himself, isn't quite in the room with the rest of them, the days when he scratches at his elbows, when his eyes are lost to another place, another time, to back alleys and clear vials.
He loves the sleepless nights, the nights filled with nightmares of blood and death, where empty screams echo through the walls of their current motel. The nights where Spencer’s bright eyes fill with tears he won’t let out, where his hands shake under the blanket, where he won’t let Derek touch him.
(“Hey, it’s alright, Spencer, it’s okay, I get it.”
‘I know.’)
He loves the dark moments, the moments when he’s reminded that Spencer isn’t like the rest of them, not really. The moments when Spencerès brain is scary, instead of a beautiful, marvelous thing. The moments when Diana Reid doesn't know who her son is, and when Derek has to wonder if there will ever be a day when Spencer Reid doesn’t remember who he is. The moments when Spencer’s headaches make him wonder if maybe it’s finally happening, if tomorrow he’ll be questioning if the voices he hears are real or not.
He loves all of it. He loves all of it, so much that sometimes he swears it’ll kill him, because he loves him, and Spencer Reid doesn’t love him back.
***
(Honestly, it’s never happened to him before.)
Spencer kisses him first, this time.
He doesn’t waste any time.
(If Derek learned anything from this goddamn job is how precious every day, every minute, every second is.)
He kisses Spencer back, grabs his face with both hands to tilt his head back so he can dip his tongue past his lips.
Spencer moans against him, sinking against the door behind him, and Derek presses up into him, feels the heat of his body, the coldness of his hands under his own shirt.
“Fuck, Spencer.” He whispers between them, tastes Spencer's smile in their next kiss. “C’mon, pretty boy.”
Spencer lets himself be guided to one of the two single beds in the hotel room.
(Always the hotels, never home.)
Spencer flops on the bed, hair sprawling around his face, and in the soft glow of the lamp light, he looks a bit like an angel.
(The pretty curve of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw.)
He drapes himself over Spencer’s body, makes space between his legs, and he can feel the bulge in Spencer’s pants bump against his own, electricity running down his spine.
Spencer kisses him again, hungry, avid.
(He’s found that Spencer likes to kiss.)
(He does not mind in the slightest.)
“You know, this doesn’t mean I’m not pissed at you.” He grumbles, pushing Spencer’s vest off. It leaves him in a purple shirt and one of his many ties.
(And on another night, after a different case, he might do something with that tie of his.)
(Not tonight, though.)
(Tonight he needs-
“It’s the job, Derek.” Spencer says, and Derek’s sure he’s trying to go for confident and imposing, but his voice catches when Derek starts sucking at his neck, so it loses a lot of its bite.
“And you’re an idiot.” He replies, because he is. He undoes the buttons on Spencer’s shirt, rips it open to expose the pale skin of his chest.
(Tonight he just needs to make sure Spencer’s okay.)
(Alive.)
He leans down to press a trail of kisses down his neck, over his collarbone, to his nipples. He sucks one in his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth, and he feels Spencer shiver.
“I have an IQ of 187.” Spencer breathes out, his hands fly out to hold onto Derek’s shoulder, digging in his shirt and leaving wrinkles behind. It doesn’t really matter. Spencer’s hands are frozen when they slide to his chest, and they shake slightly when they undo Derek’s buttons.
“Yeah, and you remain an idiot.”
“God.” Spencer’s voice breaks off into a moan, low and purring, coming from deep inside his chest, and fuck. The world reduces to this, to them, outside there could be an apocalypse, and Derek wouldn’t even notice.
He reaches up to kiss Spencer again, lets him take off his shirt. He slides it down his shoulders, returns to Spencer’s lips right after.
Spencer tastes like he always does.
(Coffee and sugar and cigarettes.)
(Home.)
He leaves a trail of lip-shaped bruises on Spencer’s skin, down his chest, on his shoulders. He presses kisses on the scars in his elbows and he hears Spencer suck in a sharp breath.
“Derek.”
He digs his fingers in Spencer’s waist, runs his thumbs over the sharp edges of his hips, holds him tight enough he might be leaving bruises, his fingers temporarily imprinted on Spencer’s body.
Spencer moans, arches, and Derek follows the curve of his body with his tongue, feels the heat of him, presses his lips over his heart and feels the steady rhythm of it.
(Alive.)
“Derek, c’mon.” Spencer whispers, and Derek grins.
“We’ve barely gotten started, pretty boy.” He murmurs back, pinching one of his nipples. “Already out of breath?”
“Fuck off.” Spencer grumbles back, voice cracking into another moan when Derek pinches harder, twisting a little, just because he can, because it’s fun watching Spencer crack, because he knows Spencer loves it.
(Alive.)
“Derek.”
“Alright, baby, alright.” He bites back a laugh, sliding down Spencer’s body to pull off his pants and boxers in one single motion.
Spencer’s cock is hard and leaking already, the head a dark pink, and Derek ignores it completely, spreading Spencer’s legs wider apart instead.
He sinks his teeth in the soft flesh of Spencer’s thigh, watching redness bloom on his skin.
(Spencer bruises so easily, so beautifully.)
“Fuck.” Spencer says, fingers twisting in the blankets, but he doesn’t flinch from the pain, sinking against Derek’s mouth instead.
(Alive.)
“Hold on.” He says, pressing another kiss over the bruise. He slides off the bed to grab his go-to bag, fishing out a bottle of lube and a box of condoms from the bottom. He returns to the bed, and then-
Then he has to take a fucking moment.
Spencer looks beautiful.
(Wide eyes, blown black and dripping in gold.)
(Messy hair and shiny lips, pink cheeks and miles of pale skin.)
“What?” Spencer asks, drawing into himself, like he’s ashamed or embarrassed, and that just won’t do.
He leans between his thighs again, pours some lube onto his fingers, and then pushes one inside Spencer’s hole. It’s tight and warm like it always is, and it makes heat curl in his guts, Spencer’s voice cracking off into a moan, head thrown back and eyes fluttering close.
“Fuck, you’re pretty.” Derek whispers, smiling when Spencer shivers, blushing all shades of red and looking away.
“Derek.” It’s all he says, and Derek doesn’t fully get it.
(Why Spencer is so bad at taking compliments, while craving them so desperately.)
(Derek would spend a lifetime repeating it.)
Spencer’s hands are on him, they drag down his chest and over his shoulders, trace invisible lines and symbols that he doesn't recognize. Spencer pulls him close, and Derek goes, of course he does.
They meet half-way for another kiss, hungry, desperate, and the angle is a bit weird, but it doesn’t matter because then Derek pushes another finger in and he gets to swallow Spencer’s next moan, gets to bite and lick at his neck, gets to leave marks on his chest.
(And sue him, maybe he’s a bit possessive.)
(Given the person under him, it’s perfectly normal, thank you very much.)
He fucks Spencer with his fingers quickly, works him open, rubbing against Spencer’s prostate and drinking in the litany of moans falling from his lips.
“Derek.” Spencer’s voice is low and breathy, and he blinks up at Derek from under his eyelashes, eyes liquid, and Christ. “Derek, I’m ready, please.”
“You know I love it when you beg, baby boy.” Derek says, pushing in a third finger. Spencer groans, thighs spreading further, hands pulling at his shoulders.
“Derek, c’mon-
“Hey, who’s in charge here, pretty boy?” He asks, and Spencer glares at him.
“You’re a dick.”
“It’s like you
don’t
wanna get fucked, gorgeous.”
“Oh my- I hate you-
“No, you don’t.” Derek grins, curling his fingers just right and watching Spencer’s back arch, sentence lost in the sweet little noises he’s making. “Be good for me, angel.”
“Fuck.” Spencer whispers, blinking at the ceiling. “Derek, please.”
“Much better.”
“Derek-
“You’re a desperate little thing, aren’t you? You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” Derek says, watches the blush spread to his neck, the way his eyes blow wide and his lips part, and fuck, he really is.
He leans in to kiss him again, tastes his own name on Spencer’s mouth and licks past his lips. Spencer kisses back and it’s urgent and burning, it sets his blood on fire, he feels drunk on it.
“Fuck, Spencer.” He grits out and then he rips his hand out of Spencer, grins when Spencer arches and moans, nails scraping against Derek’s chest.
“Christ, Derek- fuck-
He kicks off his own pants quickly, rolling on a condom and lining up. He braces one elbow next to Spencer’s face, holds on to his waist with the other and Spencer’s eyes roll back when he pushes in. The heat is blinding, Spencer’s hole tight and hot and wet, it feels like heaven.
“Fuck, baby, you feel good.” He whispers, and Spencer moans, holding on to Derek’s shoulders, pulling him deeper, closer.
“Fuck, Derek.” Spencer says, voice cracking on his name. “Fuck- fuck- Derek- move, Jesus Ch- fuck-
It’s messy.
He fucks Spencer quickly, driving his hips forward until the room fills with the wet sound of skin against skin, with the dirty noises Spencer’s making. He runs his hand down Spencer’s side, traces the obscene curve of his spine and sucks red marks into his neck. He tastes the salt on Spencer’s skin and feels the shivers wrecking through his body.
Spencer drags his nails down his back, eyes burning.
“Derek.” He breathes, and it sounds like a prayer.
He holds Spencer tight, close, closer, fucks him hard and deep, wishes the bruises would last forever, wishes everyone knew Spencer is his.
(It’s not like that, it’s not like that, it’s not like that-
“Christ, Spencer.” He says. Spencer moans, sneaking one hand between them to close it on his own dick. Or at least he tries to. Derek catches him mid-movement, stopping briefly to push both of Spencer’s wrist above his head. “Did I say you could come, angel?”
“Derek, please, God-
“You’re pretty when you beg.” Derek says, grinning when Spencer blushes some more. “Beg some more, baby, let me hear you, let me hear how much you want it.”
“Oh God.” Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. He sinks in the stretch, pulling Derek closer with his legs, blinking up at him with teary eyes. “Derek, please, I need it, I need-
“Need what, sweetheart?”
Spencer groans, and Derek changes the angle of his hips a bit, until it’s just right and Spencer is writhing under him, warm and pliant and gorgeous.
“Need to come, please, Derek, I need- just- just touch me, please, I need it, I need you , please-
(Sometimes, Derek’s sure the universe hates him.)
Derek kisses him, and Spencer lets himself be kissed, arching up against him, his hole sucking him deeper, and it’s crazy , Spencer drives him crazy.
“Keep ‘em there.” He says letting go Spencer’s wrists to wrap his hand around Spencer's cock. The head is an angry red, leaking all over, and Derek pumps it quickly, sinking his teeth in Spencer’s bottom lip.
“Holy- holy fuck, Derek-
“Come for me, angel, let me see.”
Spencer comes all over himself and Derek’s hand, clenching tight around Derek’s dick, and before he knows it, he’s coming too, buried deep inside Spencer’s warm body.
“Fuck.” He grits out, and then Spencer’s moving his hands to guide Derek’s face in another kiss. It’s messy, dirty, but Spencer kisses like a starving man and it’s intense, all-consuming, it burns him from the inside out.
“Spencer.” He breathes, feels Spencer shiver again. Spencer swallows, eyes fluttering close, his fingers dancing on Derek’s cheek. “That was-
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” He whispers, and then he has to pull back.
(Too much, too close, too good.)
Spencer’s fingers linger on his face, on his shoulders.
(It doesn’t mean anything, it doesn’t mean anything, it doesn't mean anything-
“I’ll get you a towel, hold on.”
He practically runs to the bathroom, taking off the condom and throwing it in the bin under the sink. He grabs a towel and throws in at Spencer, sitting up on the bed. Spencer doesn’t catch it, and Derek smiles at him, willing his heart to calm the fuck down.
“We’ve gotta work on your eye-hand coordination, Reid.”
And for a long, eternal second, Spencer’s eyes are unreadable, his face blank.
“You- you okay?”
Spencer’s expression clears, he smiles.
(It doesn’t reach his eyes, and Derek doesn’t understand.)
“Reid?”
“Yeah, fine.” He says, cleaning himself up, and Derek desperately wants to reach out, wants to pull him close and kiss the darkness away.
He slides back in bed, and Spencer flinches when Derek takes his hands.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He asks, but Spencer just shakes his head.
“No, no, not all.” He replies, smiling. Derek smiles back, running his thumbs over Spencer’s wrists. There are no bruises there, but there are all over the rest of his body, lip-shaped marks that are bright red against the paleness of his skin.
He looks up at Spencer, takes in the warmth of his eyes, the pretty smile on his lips.
(It’s not like that.)
“We- we should get to bed.” He says, before his heart gives out entirely, and Spencer’s face does that thing again, where it blanks out for a moment, gone so quickly that Derek half-thinks he imagined it.
(He knows he didn’t.)
(He doesn’t know what it means.)
“Right.”
He watches Spencer leave the bed, watches the way the bedsheets slide off his body.
(Honestly, it’s never happened to him before.)
(The way his heart threatens to stop any time Spencer looks at him, the sharp sting deep in chest when Spencer leaves the bed, the way his thoughts always stray to Spencer, the way his fingers constantly itch to reach out, pull, touch, hold.)
“You should really stop with those.” He says, and Spencer smiles at him from over his shoulders, bening to grab his boxers from the floor and his cigarettes from his leather bag.
“I will.” He says.
“You always say that, but you never do.”
Spencer opens the window of their hotel room, letting the night breeze in. It’s not cold out, but Spencer wraps himself in a thick cardigan anyways, and he looks softer like this, the edges of him losing some of their sharpness.
He lights up, inhales, exhales, smoke making pretty shapes against the dark sky.
“Another day.” Spencer replies, quietly, and Derek doesn’t answer.
The room is quiet, and he watches Spencer smoke from the bed, watches the way his lips close around the cigarette, his fingers curl around it.
(Pretty.)
After he's done, Spencer extinguishes the cigarette on the windowsill.
Then, Spencer turns, staring at Derek from the foot of his bed, eyes wide and so, so bright.
“You okay there?” He asks, offers a smile, and something flashes over Spencer's face.
(Something that looks like uncertainty, fear.)
“Yeah, yeah.” He says, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. “Just- just tired.”
“Well, you did almost get shot today.”
“Will you let it go?”
“Not likely.” He replies. “Idiot.”
Spencer smiles back at that, shoulders relaxing. He’s moving then, making his way to the other bed, on the other side of the room, and Derek is down bad, because fuck, the only thing he wants to do is push the beds together so they can sleep together. Hell, if he’d have it his way, he’d just tuck Spencer in his arms in this very bed, forget the other one. They can share.
(Unfortunately, life sometimes sucks.)
“‘Night, pretty boy.” He says, can’t quite help himself, and he swears he catches Spencer smiling, before he turns off the lamp, plunging them in darkness.
“Goodnight, Derek.” Spencer whispers back, so goddamn far away.
(Honestly, it’s never happened to him.)
(He’s never fallen for a coworker, he’s never fallen for someone like Spencer Reid, he’s never fallen so deeply, he’s never fallen for someone who didn’t love him back.)
(It’s never happened to him, and the ground feels unsteady under his feet, the world tilted on its axis, and he doesn’t know what to do.)
Derek falls asleep listening to Spencer’s regular breathing, and he dreams of falling and falling and crashing hard.