Archive of Our Own

Spencer Reid was running out of excuses—and restraint—neither of which settled well.

 

He had tried everything. He had tried burying himself in his work—he had tried doubling his coffee intake—and then cutting it in half when the results left him jittery, almost flighty, sneaking near-constant looks at his co-workers as if his secret would be written plainly across his forehead for everyone to see. He had tried avoiding the resident chocolate God, Derek Morgan, altogether—not the easiest to do, mind you, when their cubicles were mere feet away and they were frequently trapped together in relatively small spaces. He had tried glaring at the other man, at distancing himself both emotionally and physically. He had tried shrugging off his touches and ignoring the near-constant teasing. He had tried staring blankly ahead, answering his concerns with silence or muttered excuses or half-truths.

 

Derek, however, was rather—and increasingly—persistent. He had made it his goal it seemed to torture Spencer, to touch and tease him when-ever and where-ever possible—even on cases, the line of professionalism he usually maintained blurring until it could barely be seen. He had made more than one police officer uncomfortable with his remarks and mock-affection and Spencer knew, he just knew that the team was starting to take notice—that they were starting to realize that it was Derek his moods revolved around, Derek he closed up in front of, Derek he avoided like the plague.

 

He was considering a transfer.

 

He hated the idea. The BAU was his family. It was his home, his livelihood. He couldn't just abandon that— them— but he was becoming more and more distracted, more and more distant, and he knew he was a threat to not only their jobs but their lives. He knew that every time Derek was near him at a crime scene or Derek was staring down an armed unsub Spencer put everyone else at risk with his overabundance of emotion. It wasn't fair to anyone involved. No, it wasn't, and so it was on one particularly cool, autumn evening—a Friday—that Spencer came to grips with his frustration and made the decision to file the appropriate paperwork the following Monday.

 

It was two hours and forty minutes later—after his decision—that a knock sounded on his door, hard and loud.

 

Running his hand through his hair, Spencer slipped from the couch and quietly approached the door, hesitating in front of it. The knock didn't repeat itself despite its previous urgency and so Spencer leaned forward, pressed his eye to the peep-hole only to find himself staring at nothing more than the root of his problems.

 

“Open up, Reid,” Derek called; his posture was tense and his jaw was set. He had come there on a mission it seemed. Spencer frowned and moved to pull away—but then Derek was looking at him—somehow—really looking at him—and he found himself frozen to the spot, caught by those chocolate eyes and the determination that glinted in them. “Don't make me break down your door, pretty boy.”

 

He could ignore him. He could lock himself in his bedroom and ignore him. Maybe slip down the fire escape and act as if he had never been there to begin with. Or he could yell. He could scream at Derek until his voice was hoarse and Derek was startled into leaving as a neighbor called the police—or he could let him in and be brave, try a final time to get Derek to just... stop and leave him alone. Three seconds passed and then he was unhooking the deadbolt, its noise somehow screeching—loud, too loud—and unlocking the door. Bravery it was, then. He pulled the door open partially, sandwiching himself between it and its frame, not quite meeting Derek's eyes as he greeted him with a flat: “What do you want?”

 

He was looking just above Derek's right ear, still refusing to meet his eyes as Derek's own dragged down his body. He could see the flit and flicker in his peripheral and then Derek was rolling his jaw, lips pinching against a frown.

 

“We need to talk,” he replied evenly, matching Spencer's flat tone with one of his own.

 

He was afraid he was going to say that.

 

What was there to talk about? The decision had already been made.

 

Spencer made a bit of a face, his nose scrunching, and kept his eyes away from Derek's.

 

“And this can't wait until Monday?” he asked, expression smoothing, turning blank. His eyes felt tight and he could almost feel Derek profiling him.

 

Derek scoffed, mouth screwing up and to the right.

 

“So you can avoid me again?” he countered. “Nice try, kid.”

 

Spencer looked at him then. He fixed him with a searching look, eyes running across the length of his features, and Derek's mouth seemed to smooth in reply, eyebrows raising expectantly. He could tell by the way he held himself that he was slightly intoxicated—his footing was different—and it didn't take a genius to put two and two together when they knew where he had been. He shook his head, the door still hugged close to his body.

 

“You're drunk, Morgan,” he surmised, lips turning into a slight frown. “Go home.”

 

A drunk Derek could be even more strong-willed than a sober one.

 

He only hoped that he could put the conversation to an end there—that Derek wouldn't, in fact, break down his door. He took a half-step back to close the door—but even an intoxicated Derek had the honed reflexes of an FBI agent, it seemed, as he compensated easily for the movement, jolting forward to slide his shoe between the door and its frame, the flat of his palm pressed against the door itself with his elbow bent slightly—his forearm was tense as he kept the door wedged open—and Spencer visibly startled at the action, hesitating to force it shut.

 

“I'm not going home, Reid. Not until we talk.” Derek gave him a pointed look, eyes locked on his. “I'll stay here all night if I need to,” he continued, conviction ringing through his tone, enunciated by a slight jerk of his head, a half-nod. “You know I will, kid—come on, just bite the bullet,” he encouraged, voice softening marginally. Spencer searched his eyes. He could try to force the door shut—but Derek was considerably stronger than he was and even if he did manage, he would likely do so by hurting the other—and calling the police wasn't really an option. He would never do that to Derek anyway. Swallowing thickly, Spencer knew he only had one real choice. He would have to let Derek in and then—somehow—convince him to leave on his own accord.

 

He shifted, shoulders slumping in defeat, and let go of the door to step back. He wrapped his arms around his own abdomen as he moved and Derek pressed easily against the door, stepping forward to invite himself inside.

 

Spencer took another step back, careful to keep a bit of distance between the two of them, and he could see the way Derek regarded the motion, see the way his lips turned into a frown as he shut the door behind himself, his eyes still on him. Spencer tried squaring his shoulders, tried to look more confident in himself as he cut to the chase: “So. What is it?”

 

His voice betrayed him, sounding more strained than flat, and he swallowed hard.

 

Derek blew out a sharp breath through parted lips, chocolate colored eyes searching hazel.

 

 

“You tell me,” he replied evenly, eyebrows rising. “I know something’s up, kid. Something’s been bothering you—the whole team has noticed. We—I—just want to help.”

 

He knew why Derek had said it. He was appealing to his conscious, to his alleged companionship with the team—Spencer’s expression hardened, a muscle twitching along his jaw, fingers tugging at the cotton of his own shirt, gripping firmly onto his own sides. He knew he was worrying everyone. He knew it and it wasn’t deliberate and—just—that was exactly the problem! Not only was he distracted, they were distracted. It would likely end with one of their lives hanging in the balance—a narrow scrape, maybe—and that was the best case scenario.

 

“I don’t need your help,” Spencer muttered. His voice was strained to his own ears and he could only imagine how the words sounded to Derek. Empty, surely. “Nothing’s wrong.”

 

Derek shook his head, almost snorting in disbelief.

 

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, words a half-command, half-request, eyes softer than his tone. He was pleading for Spencer to let him in. The request was obvious in the lines of his brow; his eyebrows furrowed slightly at their center, angled down and then pinched up. His concern seemed genuine—Hell, it likely was—they were friends, after all—and Spencer hated to push him away like this—but it was better for the both of them. “Have you been having head-aches again?”

 

“No,” he answered quickly—maybe a bit too quickly. He was careful to control his expression as he repeated two words, syllables forced and enunciated with a sharp roll of his lips, verbal barbed-wire: “Nothing’s—wrong.”

 

Derek shook his head again, the movement smaller then, miniscule.

 

There was a pause and Spencer felt himself tense. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he had finally managed to get through to him, wasn’t naïve enough to think that Derek was going to drop it. No, Derek was much more stubborn than that. Strong willed, rather.

 

“Are you using?” he asked abruptly, eyes steadfast on his.

 

Spencer made a choked noise, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

 

“Am I using?” he repeated, trying to force surprise into the words. It was really no surprise that Derek would go there. It hurt, yes, that Derek would doubt his will-power and withdrawal, but it was hardly surprising. Surely he felt he had exhausted all other avenues.

 

Derek frowned and Spencer knew—he knew—that that had been the wrong response. It was too scripted. He had repeated the question—but not for the reasons Derek thought. He had repeated it because he had expected it. But their training—well, he knew how it would look from an outside perspective, how it would seem even to him if he were outside looking in. He grimaced, the line of his lips tightening.

 

“You heard me,” Derek countered.

 

Spencer swallowed, shaking his head. His eyes were pleading.

 

“You’re drunk,” he repeated. “Go home.”

 

The request, of course, worked as well that time as it had the first.

 

“Avoidance tactics won’t work on me, Reid,” Derek muttered, a bit of an edge to his voice. Something inside of Spencer bristled. He knew Derek was worried. He knew it. He could see it—but he just—he couldn’t. He couldn’t put himself out there to be rejected. Even if Derek would let him down easily—he just… couldn’t. This was one thing he didn’t know if he was strong enough to take, one rejection he knew, instinctively, had the very real possibility of breaking him because even if Derek was the kind man Spencer knew him to be, even if he promised nothing would change… everything would. Derek stepped forward, the question repeating itself, hanging in the air with forced pauses and stressed pronunciation, as if saying each word individually, without connection to the next or the last would somehow coax an answer from him. “Are—you—using?”

 

Tension flooded his limbs and he took a half-step back, shuffling to the side, an automatic reaction to having someone advance on him. Especially Derek and especially like this—it was typical alpha male behavior. Derek seemed to realize the flaw in his approach and softened his voice as he continued, “Come on, man—talk to me. Let me help you—I know there are late night NA meetings—maybe we could find you an emergency sponsor—“

 

“No,” Spencer interrupted, taking another step away from Derek, becoming desperate.

 

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed at their center, tilting downward, and Spencer could feel as much as see his eyes searching his face.

 

“Please, Reid—let me help you.” It was unlike Derek to be a broken record to this extent—while stubborn, he typically changed his tactics. He was typically more resourceful than this. Spencer knew it spoke volumes about how much he cared. He must have felt as if he had no other option. “What’s wrong?”

 

Considering Derek wasn’t changing his approach, maybe it was time Spencer changed his.

 

“Nothing’s wrong,” he repeated, arms dropping to his sides, palms turned toward Derek, fingers flexed out but relaxed. He was careful to make his body language open. Borderline welcoming. “I’m not using and nothing’s wrong—“ he sighed before Derek could object and added, “—I just… want space. Okay?”

 

There was a twitch of Derek's brow and he rolled his jaw; he saw right through it.

 

“I'm sorry, Reid,” he breathed. Spencer could hear the sincerity in his words and he knew—instinctively—that it was a general apology, that those few words brushed across so much without settling at the end—on this—and he swallowed hard. “But I can't. I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy... you haven't been eating.” The corner of Spencer's mouth twitched. He had too—just as often as before—well, nearly—but by himself. He would sneak into the break room when everyone was busy—eat half a doughnut when Derek was talking to Hotch and then decline the team's invitation to join them for lunch. He was eating—just not in front of anyone. Just not with Derek. “You look like Hell—when was the last time you managed more than an hour's sleep?—“ 112 hours, thirty nine minutes and twenty one seconds ago, he answered silently—easily, “—you're withdrawn—showing lack of interest in hobbies—in everything, honestly—“ mainly in Derek, mainly in their friendship, in the team and their commodore, Spencer corrected, “—and you're distracted, fidgety and tense. I can't let this go.”

 

But he had to. Derek had to. In a few days' time... well, he wouldn't have a choice. Spencer would be gone. And he knew that Derek would look for him, that Derek would still try—but it would be easier, he thought—he hoped—to break it off—their friendship—when he wasn't forced to see him every day. Hell, maybe he'd move. Maybe Hotch would be able to transfer him to another office, across country—somewhere Derek would be unable to follow.

 

The thought was as much of a relief as it was a proverbial dagger to the heart.

 

And he knew that within that mere second, his posture had closed off again, become tight—tense—and he felt his hands turn back and curl into half-fists at his sides, his chin lifting fractionally. He was leaving and that was that and there was nothing Derek could say or do. Nothing. And he needed to understand that.

 

“Too bad,” he snapped. “Now go home.”

 

He poured everything he could into those few words—all of his desperation and anger and pain—and he hoped, he begged for Derek to understand, to just leave already and drop it—let things be—let him be. In an attempt to enunciate his command, to give Derek no further option and force his hand, Spencer turned. He moved toward the kitchen—as far away from Derek as he could manage, then—but then there was a hand against his wrist, fingers wrapping around and tugging sharply to spin him. It happened quickly. He jerked around to tell Derek to let go but the words were severed, cut off to die in his throat as Derek quickly stepped forward to back him up—two steps—into the nearby wall, the movement fueled by surprise and desperation. Spencer startled, jerking his wrist from his grip, but it was too late—he was pinned against the wall, Derek's arms moving to either side of him, palms flat, body nearly covering his.

 

Typical alpha male behavior—he should have expected it, should have seen it—should have reacted differently, better—but it was too late and Derek's voice was nearly a growl, his face mere inches away from his as he repeated, “Are—you—using?”

 

Spencer's pulse had accelerated considerably, partially because of the remnants of panic racing through him and partially because of Derek's close proximity. He didn't do well with being cornered—had never done well with being cornered—and he tried to press against the memories that rushed over him, his mind eager to betray him it seemed; the motion became physical as he moved his hands to Derek's chest and tried to push him away. It was of no use. Derek's stature was considerably larger than his, considerably more imposing, and the other man had positioned himself expertly, his footing just so, weight shifted to his knees and anchoring him in place. Spencer's hands dropped down and he tried to worm his way out from under Derek's right arm, lungs tight. He could smell Derek's cologne and aftershave and laundry soap—it was familiar, so familiar, and the scent helped chase away his memories and usher in desire—he squirmed more, desperate to get away, but Derek pressed in closer, pinning his body more forcibly between the wall and his own. He searched for an out, refusing to meet Derek's eyes. He needed an out, needed to get away—he was trying to remind himself that this was Derek, that Derek wouldn't hurt him—not like that—and that he was okay, that he was safe—and he smelled so good but those thoughts were just as dangerous as the memories that sometimes plagued his nights.

 

“Don't make me ask again, kid,” Derek warned. It was an empty threat and he knew it—God, he was so close—Spencer's breath was sharp and stuttering, adrenaline lining his form, and he tried to shift again, tried to shrug him off and duck away before his body could betray him further. But as he shifted, his hips crashed into Derek's and he knew—he knew that it was obvious then. So fucking obvious and the realization burned.

 

His eyes reeled to Derek’s the moment it happened, panic clawing at him, taking place of every other emotion—he knew that it was just a feeling, just a matter of perception, but he could have sworn that his heart skipped a beat, his breath stuttering in sync with its interruption. Maybe Derek would shrug it off—laugh it off—it was a perfectly normal reaction, he supposed—libido varied from person to person—and maybe his perceived innocence would work in his favor—maybe Derek would laugh it off, dismiss it a byproduct of their close proximity. It was far more likely that Derek would laugh it off than be disgusted because this was Derek and that was the sort of person he was and yet both possibilities seemed to hurt in equal measure. He swallowed hard. He needed to say something, offer some sort of explanation or apology or something. Ignoring it would be too suspicious. And so he managed a stuttered, “S-sorry—I—err, sorry—p-please just—“ just don’t laugh, don’t be disgusted, don’t pull away—no, pull away—please, just give me space—please don’t hurt me.

He looked away. Spencer tensed, braced himself for the inevitable rejection. Even if it wasn’t deliberate, even if Derek didn’t see it as such—that was what it came down to. That was what it would be. Derek didn’t want this—him—and he should consider himself blessed to have him in his life at all but it was hard, too hard to be optimistic when everything in his life had trained him to be everything but. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong enough to do this and yet he needed to be—needed to be, needed to get through this—just get through this—and then maybe he could convince Derek to leave and Monday he would put in his transfer papers. Maybe he could coax Hotch to pull a few favors and get it processed as quickly as possible and by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest, his embarrassment would be nothing but a memory, a picture-perfect example of why so many had labeled him a freak.

Derek was staring. Still. He could feel it, see it in his peripheral. And Spencer could hear his heart in his ears, loud and accelerated and erratic and if it was physically possible for it to do so he was fairly certain it would leap from his chest. He rolled his lips together, pressing himself further back and against the wall to put as much distance between himself and Derek as he could. This was wrong, all wrong—this wasn’t supposed to happen like this—no, correction, this wasn’t supposed to happen at all. He opened his mouth to try fumbling through another apology, to try fumbling through something but then Derek was leaning in, his body pressing firmly against his and he could feel his body react to the contact, erection jerking in his pants.

His breathing hitched, eyes reeling back and to his. Derek’s eyes were fixed resolutely on his and he was fairly certain the look was short-circuiting his brain because his lungs ached and he needed to breathe, to exhale and then inhale and repeat but he couldn’t, especially then as Derek shifted yet again, dipping his head in and down, his lips brushing against the juncture of his jaw and cheek. That was—that was unexpected and no, no, this couldn’t be happening and yet Derek was speaking, voice distant, as if under water: “I’m not through with you yet, pretty boy.”

Adrenaline. Adrenaline and surprise and hope and anticipation—he recognized the sensations for what they were and finally forced out a breath, only to inhale sharply again as Derek once more managed to do the unexpected by letting a hand fall from the wall and settle against his hip. He could feel Derek’s breath against his skin and a shiver rolled down his spine and fuck, how was he supposed to react to that? He was staring off into space, eyes unfocused, and he was only half-aware of the noise that almost—almost—escaped him.

This wasn’t—couldn’t be happening. No, this was wrong—all wrong—and surely Derek was going to pull away at any given moment, surely he was going to laugh at him and gawk and Spencer was reminded of that flag-pole on the football field and he closed his eyes, breath coming out in shaking pants. He tried telling himself that that was wrong, too, that Derek wasn’t that sort of person. No, Derek was good. He was caring. He was compassionate and brave and smart and kind, so kind, and never had Spencer witnessed him be needlessly cruel and yet, right then, his logic refused to connect. His mind was reeling, racing out of control, and then Derek was talking again and he needed to focus—needed to focus.

“Is this what you want?”

The question took longer than it perhaps should to connect. His brain was lagging, dredged with equal parts anxiety and hope and then Derek was tugging on his shirt, slipping it up until his fingertips were brushing against his skin. Deliberate, that. Completely deliberate. Clearly. His breathing stuttered—again—and he was fairly certain that he was going to begin hyperventilating if Derek kept this up.

As if to encourage his descent into madness, Derek shifted, pressing his hips more firmly against his and that’s when it became obvious, so obvious, Derek’s own erection pressing against his thigh. He opened his eyes—when had he shut them? —and blinked, exhaling sharply, his answer chasing the breath and hooking on its end without his permission: “Yes.”

Surely that was obvious too—so obvious—and a small voice chided him, told him that he shouldn’t be doing this, that this was a trick—had to be a trick—but Derek was so close and he could feel the way his body practically vibrated against his, hummed with a surprising and unspoken arousal of its own, and he could feel his breath against his skin and he was shivering and trembling and God, he smelled as delicious as he felt, cologne sweet and musky, colored by sweat, by Derek, and the faint after-scent of alcohol. Alcohol. Of course—Derek was intoxicated. He was under the influence, no matter how minutely, and surely he didn’t mean this—couldn’t mean this—and, being sober, Spencer should put a stop to this. Should. But he couldn’t because Derek’s face was drawing closer to his and he could feel his lips against his skin, soft and sweeping, teasing, and he was kissing along the edge of his jaw and then down, over the slope of his chin and starts of his throat. His body seemed to be acting on its own accord, without conscious permission, because he was half-aware of his spinal column curving, body arching, lifting from the wall and pushing up and into his hips, into the firm touch against his waist. Derek continued kissing his throat and he really shouldn’t be doing this—rather, he shouldn’t be letting Derek do this, shouldn’t be taking advantage of his intoxication but—oh, oh—another shiver skipped through him as Derek’s breath ghosted over a particularly sensitive spot and his name tore itself from his lips in a low, embarrassing whine: “Morgan—“

He didn't know what he was going to say. He knew he should say something, knew he wanted to say something, but that word—his name—was all that he could manage. And then Derek's touch was lightening and panic cut through him, the fear that he was going to stop, that he really had just been teasing him, but before it could settle Derek's fingertips were trailing along the waist-band of his pants and his lips were continuing their descent along his neck. Derek's body was steady against his and Spencer knew that he was completely and absolutely fucked. He was powerless to resist this—him—to turn him away, even if it was the right thing to do, even if it would save him heart-break in the end. He had wanted Derek for so long, had fallen for him years ago and he had tried—God had he tried—to resist, to be strong and push his own feelings aside, to compartmentalize as he always had but there was something different about Derek, something that managed to corrupt all of his safe-guards.

“Yes?” Derek asked, his eyelashes and nose tickling his skin, lips teasing.

Spencer needed to reply. He needed to focus, needed to pull himself together—even if it was only to beg, to ask Derek to continue, to give him this at least—completely—before he took it away. But he couldn't. He could only swallow and twitch, his hands jerking up, his body seeking more contact, seeking a way to communicate to him without words. One hand settled against Derek's bicep and the other against his clothed abdomen.

He drew in a deep breath and managed, “Please—“, the word broken and shallow, body betraying him again. He squirmed, pressing up and into him and tried again: “Please—“

Derek chuckled.

Before Spencer's panic could return, he muttered, “Oh, pretty boy, I'm sure you can do better than that.”

A frustrated noise caught in the back of his throat and he drew in a sharp breath, tentatively shifting, letting the hand against Derek's bicep trace against dark skin, the fingers of his other hand twisting into the fabric of his shirt and tugging him closer. He needed this—needed Derek—and was pleased when the man managed to jolt forward to press more firmly against him. Their hips rutted together and Spencer felt a rush of satisfaction as Derek drew in a sharp breath of his own. He could feel the other man's arousal and he tried to focus on that, tried to focus on the idea that—right then, at least—Derek wanted this—wanted him. He tried to let that be enough, tried to encourage his own descent and focus on the moment.

He could feel Derek's smile as several hot, open mouthed kisses were pressed to his skin, a roller-coaster of shivers tracing his spinal column and drawing another choked noise—an almost whimper. Derek was absolutely brilliant with his mouth, Spencer thought, and then Derek's hand was shifting, moving against his waist, slipping further down and between their bodies, fingertips breaths away from his erection. He was teasing him and fuck, it was absolutely amazing—he was absolutely amazing—his tongue against his skin, tracing over the line of a tendon, and Spencer's back arched, his head falling back and against the wall so that Derek had better access.

“That's better,” Derek muttered. His brain struggled to process the words, buried under a sea of sensation, of please, more, of need, and before he could manage so much as a noise of agreement Derek's hand was rewarding him, shifting so that it was pressed against his clothed erection. Spencer's lips parted, breathing loud in his ears, and he struggled to focus as arousal shot through his stomach in waves, liquid heat that singed his lungs. Derek was touching him—he was touching him—there—and fuck that felt amazing and then Derek was lifting his head to look at him, his eyes visibly tracing over his features to settle on his own half-lidded gaze and it was too much—too fucking much—and somehow not enough. Never enough.

He could feel Derek's fingers grip along the width of his erection, sliding up and then down, and Spencer bit at his bottom lip, unable to tear his eyes away from Derek's.

He could see the arousal simmering in his eyes and it was then that he decided to forget about later, to forget about what would happen afterward—at least for the time being—and embrace this for what it was. If Derek was willing to give this to him, what ever this was, well then he was going to make every attempt to enjoy it. It was an impulsive decision and maybe he would regret it later—but that was later and he was determined not to let that possibility hamper the experience. And so Spencer's hand abruptly retreated from Derek's bicep, fluttering up to settle against the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard against his skin; he drew Derek forward, relieved when the dark-skinned man obliged, and leaned in himself, catching his lips with his own. He closed his eyes, focusing solely on the touch of Derek's lips against his, firm and eager, soft and plump and maybe a little bit chapped; he slotted his lips easily against his, drawing Derek's bottom lip into his mouth to lick and bite. He poured everything he could into the kiss. He tried to tell Derek how much this meant to him, tried to put into movement what he was too cowardly to put into words. Derek opened his mouth in reply and their tongues crashed together and it didn't matter if Derek understood—not really—not then—because at least he was still there, still willing to give Spencer this and that was something. It had to be something. There was the aftertaste of alcohol and mint and warmth, something indescribable he imagined to be purely Derek. Derek's hand moved back up to grip at his hip and, in turn, Spencer jerked his hips up and into Derek's and moaned, able to feel Derek's own erection digging in, pressing against his.

Derek's other hand moved from the wall and to Spencer's other hip; he was bracing himself fully against him and the low groan that escaped as Spencer rutted his hips into his again was everything Spencer wanted in that moment. Derek wanted this—wanted him—and God the man was amazing. Spencer sucked gently on his tongue, desperate to memorize every angle and portion of his mouth, his nails digging into the nape of his neck, anchoring him close, with his other hand gripping his shirt tightly, holding him in place. Derek rolled his hips against his and the movement was deliberate, Spencer knew—he could tell—but it was another thought that didn't quite settle as he was swept up in the sensation of it, another moan falling from his lips. Derek bit at his bottom lip, drew it into his mouth and sucked, smoothing the mark a moment later with his tongue and Spencer was really beginning to appreciate how talented he was with his mouth.

Their hips worked on finding a steady pace, fast, half-thought jerks turning into quick, deliberate rolls forward and up. The kiss, which had lasted long enough to leave them both breathless, came to its end; Spencer pressed his forehead against Derek's and both of their eyes opened to peer hungrily into the other's. The way Derek was looking at him—his stomach felt as if it were on fire, the heat moving up and flipping to touch his lungs.

“Please,” Spencer repeated, the word coming on its own accord; they were both nearly cross-eyed in their close proximity but Spencer could see a smile touching his friend's lips as he pushed his hips up and into his.

“Please what?” Derek asked, his eyes dark. His voice was rougher than usual, husky, and the sound itself sent another wave of warmth spiraling through him, causing his breath to skip before settling.

“Please—“ he tried again, licking his lips and swallowing, “touch me.”

He could feel the warmth touching his face, his cheeks turning scarlet—what if Derek refused? What if Derek really was just teasing him and—no. He turned those thoughts away before his mind could fully embrace them, and he was rewarded with a chuckle, Derek's smile widening as his hands shifted against Spencer's waistband and down to his belt. Spencer could have sworn his stomach flipped again, anticipation giving birth to a dozen of butterflies.

“You only needed to ask,” Derek muttered as he lifted his hips. He began unbuckling Spencer's belt, sliding the leather through its clasp without tearing his eyes away from Spencer's, and any doubt Spencer may have experienced just moments prior was stolen away, tucked into the furthest stretches of his subconscious. The way Derek was looking at him—his desire was written across every plane of his face, etched in every feature; his eyes were darker than usual, hungry and searching, and his lips were parted, breaths coming out in short bursts to dance across his skin. Spencer's hand shifted, his touch lightening, fingertips turning to gently stroke available skin.

Derek managed to unbutton and unzip Spencer's corduroys in a surprisingly fluid movement, his hands shifting so that he could tug on restricting fabric. He obediently lifted his hips for the other, letting his pants slide down and past his butt, pooling mid-thigh. The butterflies in his stomach were flapping incessantly, fanning the fire, and Spencer tried to remember how to breathe. The attempt was quickly abandoned as Derek's lips met his again.

He returned the kiss with fervor, nipping and sucking on his lips as Derek worked on freeing him from his briefs, calloused fingers brushing against bare skin and eliciting a completely knee-jerk reaction; his head fell back to hit the wall as he let out a sharp gasp, lips tearing from his as liquid lava shot straight through his chest. The smile that touched Derek's features at the motion was darker than usual, twisted and smoldering, and Spencer was careful to keep his eyes on his, breath a low groan as Derek raised his right hand and licked a stripe across his palm. The back of his head throbbed dully but it was easy to ignore—easier than it should be—anticipation blanketing his nerves and causing him to squirm, his chest heaving.

A mere moment later Derek wrapped his fingers around his cock.

Spencer's hips jolted up and into his touch, a moan tearing itself from his lips and even though Derek had barely touched him, Spencer had already decided that he was as talented with his hands as he was with his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to focus on anything more than Derek's hands against his bare skin, barely aware that he was trembling under the weight of the sensation. Derek gave his cock an experimental twist and tug and another desperate, grated moan tore itself from his larynx, his cock throbbing in his grip.

Spencer decided, quite abruptly, that he needed more. He needed to feel Derek's bare skin—he needed to feel the way his muscles moved as he shifted, to memorize each twitch and tremor of his body. He needed to trace the lines of his throat and shoulders with his tongue, to taste his skin and compare its texture to other bits and pieces—he needed to chase the drops of sweat and pleasure with his mouth as he made Derek come as undone as he already was. He needed more. He needed everything Derek was willing to give him and so the hand that had been wringing cotton moved abruptly as he opened his eyes. He released the fabric to drag his hand down to the hem of his tee and tug it sharply up to reveal his navel.

“Off—“ he muttered, lifting his head. “Please—take it off.”

It was less of a request than it was a demand, his need underlining every syllable, every consonant and vowel.

He was rewarded with Derek doing as commanded, retracting only to pull his shirt from his shoulders and head, to drop it carelessly to the floor, the whisper of cotton drowned under their broken breaths. Spencer wasted little time, his eyes devouring the lines of his body, hands moving to bare skin within an instant, pulling him close—his bare cock rutted against Derek's jeans and Derek chuckled and Spencer wanted nothing more than to steal the amusement from his body and leave him gasping and desperate.

“Not so fast, kid,” Derek muttered, his hands moving to tug at his shirt in kind. Spencer nearly whined but quickly complied, knowing it to be the easiest way to get what he wanted, and lifted his arms obediently over his head so that Derek could strip him of restricting fabric and add it to his own on the floor. As soon as he was freed from his shirt, Spencer's hands slid around to map out the planes of Derek's back, fingertips tracing over each vertebrae as he pulled him close, their bare abdomens touching and sending an obvious jolt of pleasure through the both of them. It would be easy to memorize the feel of his body against his. An eidetic memory guaranteed that. And so he went about caressing each muscle, collecting the flow of movement with his fingertips and tucking it safely away, a small, quivering part of him afraid that this would be the only time he would be able to do this, the only time Derek would honor these whims and fulfill Spencer's own. Spencer looked at him, really looked at him, aware that his affection radiated from each plane of his face—he needed to see Derek's reactions, needed to see the way he made him quiver, to memorize that in sync with the memories of movement.

Spencer slid his hands further down over heated skin and was rewarded with a jerk of Derek's hips into his own.

Derek lifted his hand to re-coat his palm, licking another stripe across his skin, and Spencer sucked in a greedy breath, the butterflies returning with a vengeance. He slid his hand between their bodies, easily finding his cock, and then Derek's fingers were wrapping around his width and palming at his shaft. Spencer moaned, unable to swallow it down, and leaned in to press his lips to Derek's throat. He needed to taste him—needed more.

Derek's head rolled back, tilting to give him better access, and Spencer greedily kissed and licked at his skin, tracing the muscles and tendons with his mouth. There was a sharp intake of breath and Spencer focused on that spot, on making Derek repeat the noise, but it was hard to focus as the other gave his cock several slow, twisting jerks, teasing him until he was powerless to do anything more than buck into his touch. His mouth dropped down to latch onto his collarbone, Derek's skin barely stifling his moans, and he ran his tongue over each notch of skin covered bone.

Derek's hand quickened, his grip tightening, and Spencer was only half-aware that he was fucking his fist.

His lips tore themselves from Derek's skin and he pressed his forehead against the curve of his shoulder—his breathing came out in stuttering pants, the occasional moan underlying the noise, and fuck, Derek was definitely as talented with his hands as he was with his mouth. Derek shifted slightly and Spencer's eyes darted open—when had he closed them?—at the touch of his lips against his temple, sweet and affectionate, and he could swear his heart collapsed in on itself, tearing itself from ventricles and imploding. He moaned loudly, shifting a mere moment later to lift his face, to catch his lips with his. He kissed him—hard—and Derek kissed him back in equal measure, nipping at his bottom lip, and Spencer's eyes were closed again and God—was it possible? Was it possible that this was more for Derek too?

Spencer searched his mouth with his tongue, as if he would find his answer there, and Derek swirled his tongue around his, inviting him inside—Spencer moaned again, heart re-expanding, pushing hard against his lungs. He had never let himself entertain the idea that Derek could feel the same, that Derek cared about him more as a friend, and now that it had weaseled into his mind, it was impossibly intoxicating. He pulled away to look at him, his mouth wet, and tried to focus on the physical versus the near impossible.

“Can I—nnfhhh—“ his question melted into another moan, almost keening in nature, as Derek twisted his hand and palmed at the tip of his head, smearing his precome. The corner of Derek's mouth twitched into a slight smirk and he repeated the action—deliberately, of course—and Spencer's hips jerked forward in reply. He struggled to focus, to force the question through gritted teeth, and his face was almost a grimace as he managed, finally: “Can I—touch you?”

His hands slid down Derek's back to settle against his hips.

Derek licked his lips and Spencer almost smiled, knowing instinctively that Derek wanted that—him—able to feel his desire digging into his bare thigh. But then Derek was shaking his head and offering him a smile, soft and twisted, a strange sort of apology, and Spencer almost whimpered under the pain of the rejection, his answer cutting through him like lightning.

“I want to focus on you, pretty boy,” Derek practically purred, leaning in to press their foreheads together. He isn't rejecting me, Spencer thought deliriously—a thought fueled by the motion of his hand giving his cock a deliberate twist and pull, grip tightening. Spencer choked on another moan, struggling to focus, to search his eyes with his. Derek gave his cock another careful twist and added, voice husky, “I want you to come apart for me—make you focus on nothing more than my hand—shut that big brain of yours down. Think I can do that, pretty boy?”

Feeling disappointment was no longer an option—not when Derek was talking like that, not when Derek was doing that with his hand—and he made a noise in the back of his throat that was supposed to be an answer, supposed to be some string of letters that were more coherent than a simple nnghhnfhh, but when he realized that it was anything but, he settled for nodding, his cock throbbing under Derek's touch.

The fire in his stomach had roared to life again, stronger than before, and he was breathing in smoke as his thighs tingled and his cock tightened. He was getting close, nearing that edge, and Derek licked his lips, searching Spencer's eyes before slowing the movements of his hand.

Spencer nearly whined, the noise interrupted by a single question: “Are you using?”

It felt like a whip against his bare chest, cold leather slashing through him and slicing along his ribs. It was a punch to his heart—he had never known Derek to be so twisted and yet in that moment his fears laughed at him, reared up on their hind-legs and growled, demanded his full attention in a way that was heart-breaking and panic-inducing and no, he couldn't focus on that. Not then. He needed to focus, needed to embrace the moment and keep it close to his heart. He wouldn't let his fear touch it—couldn't if he wanted to remain upright and functioning and some semblance of whole when Derek was done with him.

He looked at him, his brow furrowing, expression darkening. He needed this. He needed Derek and if this was the only way he was going to get it—if this was his sacrifice—then so be it. He didn't pull away. He didn't push at him or tell him to stop. No, instead he managed: “No—no—“ it was a mere mutter, the words hesitant, and Derek was still stroking his cock, more lightly then, touch more teasing than before. He was poking and prodding at the fire in his stomach, stoking the flames, and Spencer's hips jerked forward. Derek's eyes were still on his but he could no longer read them and maybe, he realized, it was because of what he feared he'd find.

“So if I—“ Derek quickened his pace a bit more, letting his hand squeeze and pull harder, touch becoming more firm, “searched this apartment—you'd be clean?” The question barely had time to register before Derek was leaning in, teasing him further by pressing his lips briefly against his, his tongue brushing across the seams of his mouth before he pulled away, coaxing, “Come on, pretty boy—I promise I'll reward your honesty.”

Spencer tried to chase the kiss with his own but Derek remained firm, leaning just out of reach, and in frustration Spencer's hands skirted up his back, fingernails practically digging into his skin. Derek let out an almost pained noise and guilt flared in his stomach—but his touch remained hard, a feeble attempt at a punishment.

“Come on,” Derek repeated, shaking his head and pulling at his cock. Spencer whimpered, leaning back so that his head was resting against the wall again; his touch still didn't let up.

If this was his sacrifice—well, so be it. He could only trust that the pain would be worth it, that he would be able to survive the inevitable heart-break that came afterward.

“No—I—“ he moaned as Derek's hand twisted around him, “I haven't been—nnfhhh—“ Derek repeated an earlier gesture, palming at the head of his cock before letting his fingers slide down and twist, and Spencer struggled to focus, to make the needed words form across his tongue, “but—m'air conditioner... past the filter—two bottles—been there for—ahh, two—two months—six days—twenty seven minutes and—“

“Then what's been bothering you?” Derek interrupted. Spencer knew that it was the moment of truth—that this was the sacrifice—because if it hadn't been obvious before, if Derek had somehow managed to overlook the clues and misread everything, well... it would be obvious then. Desperately and pathetically obvious.

Derek let the pace of his hand quicken and steady out, a glimpse of his promised reward, and Spencer swallowed hard, several lines forming across his forehead as he made that leap, his answer coming out in a gasp: “You.”

The movement of his arm stopped and stuttered. Spencer fell flat, lungs robbed of their air, and he tried to encourage Derek with a deliberate jerk of his hips. He needed this—needed his sacrifice to be rewarded, if only for the moment. And then when it was over—when Derek realized his mistake—Spencer swallowed down a choked noise, trying to focus on the pleasure of Derek's touch as he was spurred back into action, his brow furrowed.

“Me?”

“You—“ he confirmed, his eyes on his, wide and searching. Please don't stop. Please—he could see Derek thinking, dissecting, and no—no—he couldn't let him think about it, couldn't let him come to that conclusion because when he did—when he did, surely this would stop. And so he said, desperately, “—please—Morgan—Derek—need this—“ you, “—please—don't... don't stop—not yet—“ not yet.

Derek's hand, which had slowed again, quickened at the end of his broken request, coaxing Spencer back to that edge. Spencer let out a grateful noise, relief rushing through him, chasing away the pain for the time being, and then Derek's lips were trailing over the edge of his jaw before ghosting up and finding his ear. Derek was still there—Derek was still there and at least he would have this—at least he would have this—and that had to be something. It had to be. He would make it be if he had to. Derek's breath ghosted over sensitive flesh, licking at the bottom of his earlobe before taking it gently into his mouth, nipping and licking before releasing it with a chuckle. Spencer nearly whimpered.

“Mmm, pretty boy—I have no plans of stopping—“ he shifted to look at Spencer again, to catch his eyes with his, and the desire Spencer saw there hurt in ways it shouldn't, “—fuck. You're so gorgeous like this.”

Spencer closed his eyes, unable to press fully against the guilt and then—oh—oh— he was right there, right fucking there and his mind was a white-wash of pleasure, of please and more as Derek's hand tightened around his cock. “Ahh—please—“

“Close?”

His voice was raw and husky and Spencer managed to nod, eyes opening to peer into his, half-lidded and dark, searching.

The corner of Derek's mouth twitched.

“Not quite yet—“

Spencer did whimper then, his arousal intensifying—how was that even possible?—his body jerking forward, cock throbbing pitifully in his hand. Derek pulled and twisted and the fire that had slowed to a smolder in his stomach flared to life, cutting through him and eliciting another whimper, nails scratching down Derek's back. And then Derek was offering him reprieve, giving him an escape, an out from the sensations wracking his frame by coaxing gently: “There we go—come on, pretty boy. Come on, Reid—let go. Come for me—come on, Spencer—“

Spencer came with a shout, tumbling over that edge in a rush, his body jerking unceremoniously beneath his as warmth coated Derek's hand. His vision brightened and his temples throbbed, heat and lightning and pleasure coursing through his veins, shooting through him in waves that made his knees weak and his toes clench and his body tremble. He jerked against the wall, his hips stuttering under Derek's touch—he was still stroking him, milking the remnants of his orgasm from him and God he was sensitive, so sensitive and it almost tickled—he whimpered loudly, the touch to Derek's back lifting, lightening in pressure as he tried to squirm away.

Derek chuckled and slowed his movements; he leaned in and kissed Spencer and Spencer knew that it was a goodbye of sorts—he could feel the pity in the tentative touch of his lips to his and quickly deepened the kiss, needing to take what ever Derek was willing to give him, be it in pity or not. He licked and nipped at Derek's bottom lip before delving his tongue into his mouth, letting it run along the edge of his teeth and then swirl against his. Surprisingly, Derek countered his passion with a fervor of his own, and Spencer's heart was loud in his ears, feeling very much like a lump in his throat.

He pulled away, unable to meet Derek's eyes with his own as he managed, flatly, “I should... I should clean up.”

 

 

Spencer shifted, drawing himself away from the other man. He pressed his hands against his chest to guide him back and Derek did so without further prompting. Already the swirl of self-hate had begun, memories turning darker—self-deprecating and abusive, inner turmoil taking on the voices of bullies past. He needed an out. He knew he would buckle under their weight if Derek added his voice to his collection, knew he would give into his own doubts and fears. Spencer hurried to pull up his underwear and pants. He didn't bother to buckle his own belt or grab his shirt, instead brushing past Derek and toward the bathroom, unable to meet his eyes as he fled.

 

 

He shut the door as soon as he was in the reprieve of the bathroom, its click loud in the silence of his apartment, and practically deflated once out of sight.

 

 

He was stupid—so stupid—to think that Derek would want him like that, to think that that had been anything more than a good time or a way to manipulate him. Derek was different than everybody else, yes—he had always known that—but now he was uncertain if that was good or bad.

*****

 

He took a long, hot shower—turned the water up until its temperature nearly burned him and forced him to become numb. And then he turned it up a bit higher. He scrubbed his body and washed his hair and then, moments before he stepped out, he let the water temperature plummet, shocking him into another form of numbness he sometimes used to combat his cravings. He tried desperately to think of each movement—to focus on his footwork as he climbed out of the shower—to focus on how his fingers curled around his towel as he shook out his hair and patted at red skin.

 

 

He had never heard the door open and shut but he knew it had—knew Derek had left and—no. He focused instead on wrapping the plush, terry-cloth towel around his waist. He focused instead on lifting his hand and gripping the bathroom's door knob, on turning it and stepping back to pull the door open, on stepping out and into his apartment on—on blinking sheepishly at Derek, who was sitting calmly on his couch with a beer in hand as if nothing had happened.

 

 

It was a marvel what his mind chose to focus on next—the offered beer, its body lifting up and tilting toward him. He only had beer in his house because of Derek, because he had long ago started stocking his fridge with a few of his friend's favorites and, it seemed, never stopped. He blinked and somehow managed to shake his head, his eyes on his.

 

 

Derek was still there. Derek hadn't left.

 

 

Why?

 

Derek shrugged, lifting the bottle to take a long pull of its contents, and Spencer took two hesitant steps forward, his eyes still carefully trained on the other man. His mouth was turned into a slight pucker, his brow creased, and he was only barely aware of the smile gracing Derek's lips around the bottle's mouth. He lowered it so that it was balanced gently on his knee; Derek gave Spencer a half-smile, one-sided and teasing. Familiar.

 

“Out with it, kid,” he coaxed, amusement dancing in his tone.

 

Spencer swallowed. Here Derek was, acting as if nothing had happened—acting as if he wasn't disgusted by Spencer—as if the idea of this—of them—didn't bother him—as if he hadn't just manipulated him. The crease along Spencer's brow darkened and he really didn't know if Derek was a better or worse person for that—for his caviler attitude.

 

“I thought—I didn't think—“ he stopped, blinking several times. I thought you'd be gone. I didn't think you would be here.

 

Derek simply stared in reply, which was even more maddening of an action then than before, his smile melting fractionally.

 

“Do you want me to?” he finished.

 

“No—“ Spencer answered quickly, shaking his head. Maybe a bit too quickly—even if Derek was staying because it didn't bother him... well, that could change. Especially if Spencer showed how desperate he was for his company, for his approval or friendship. “I mean—not if you—not unless you want to—“ he stopped, knowing he wasn't helping his cause, and waited for Derek to stand up and leave.

 

He noticed, absently, that their shirts were still in a pile by the wall.

 

He licked his lips. Derek looked completely relaxed, his body curved and tucked into his sofa, shoulders drawn down into their natural curve. A smile touched his lips and he scoffed, causing Spencer's eyes to narrow fractionally as he attempted to dissect the noise, but before he could succeed, Derek was setting his beer down on one of his coasters and moving to his feet to walk around the coffee table, his eyes on his.

 

“I'm not going anywhere, pretty boy,” he reassured, his hand coming up to rest against his bare hip. His touch was gentle—warm—grounding. He shivered under its weight, the gooseflesh from his shower returning with a vengeance, and was too aware of his own breath hitching. Derek was touching him—he still wanted to touch him—and then his eyes were dragging—deliberately—over his person before returning to his. “This look suits you,” he teased. He was trying to lighten the mood—he was trying to show Spencer that things hadn't changed—not really—and Spencer's heart felt as if it were doing somersaults at the idea. “Although there's still room for improvement...”

 

 

Spencer could feel the color returning to his skin, his face heating under the look Derek was giving him. The idea that Derek still wanted him—that this had somehow been a big misunderstanding—it was confusing and overwhelming and more than a bit wonderful. He swallowed, finally managing, voice a breath, “And how's that?”

 

 

Derek chuckled, leaning in closely to ghost his lips against his and rob him of his breath as he answered, “Here—let me show you.”

 

 

Both hands shifted to settle against interwoven cotton, fingertips easily sliding between the towel and warm flesh as he leaned in, closing the distance—and his eyes—to press his lips against Spencer's. Spencer's heart was loud in his ears as his own eyes shut; he let Derek guide the kiss, let Derek show him what he wanted—and it was a sharp contradiction to their last. It was slow and gentle, lips moving tenderly against his, tongue sure but searching, reaffirming, and Spencer gladly returned the gestures with his own. His hands abandoned his towel so that his arms could weave around Derek's neck and draw him close, their bare abdomens bumping. He could feel Derek smiling into the kiss, nipping gently at Spencer's bottom lip before pulling away.

 

 

When Spencer opened his eyes to meet Derek's, his heart felt like it could very much implode again. It was simple perception, he knew, but the small smile that touched Derek's lips as his towel fell from between their bodies and to the floor, near-silent, made his mouth dry and his stomach quiver.

 

 

“Much better,” he teased.

 

Spencer managed a smile of his own, small but genuine—shy—and Derek's widened in reply. His smile faltered a moment later. He needed to be sure—he needed to clear up what ever miscommunication lingered—he needed to know that Derek knew—that Derek was okay with... what ever this was.

 

Before Derek could prompt him into talking, Spencer muttered: “Don't leave.”

 

 

His lungs were tight as Derek's smile melted in reply.

 

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he said simply, sliding an arm around Spencer's waist, his hand settling against the small of his bare back. He could feel Derek's jeans against his bare skin and he exhaled sharply. “I'm afraid you're stuck with me, pretty boy.”

 

Spencer searched his eyes, weighing the truth of the statement—he could hear the conviction in his tone, could see it shining in the slight quirk of either eyebrow and the bare curve of his lips. The butterflies in his stomach seemed to conjure themselves from thin air and then he was smiling again, breathless, as he replied, “Good.”

 

And then Spencer's lips were on Derek's again, anchoring him into place, and he could feel Derek's promise chasing the fears from his mind.