coffeebuddha | Wash the Echoes Out

Title: Wash the Echoes Out
Author: coffeebuddha
Rating: R/FRM
Characters/Pairings: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid, Diana Reid, Aaron Hotchner, Penelope Garcia, Ashley Seaver, Fran Morgan, Clooney
Word Count: 6620
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Contains: Mental illness, implied character death, AUishness, mentions of drug use.
Summary: Spencer's life is about as perfect as anything he could have asked for, so why does he feel like it's about to crack apart around the edges?
Notes: The title is taken from the lyrics of Florence and the Machine's Drumming Song. The poem Spencer quotes is Joyce Mansour's 'I want to sleep with you'. While I did do some research on the subject, I make no claims that this is a completely accurate portrayal of mental illness.

***

The room doesn't smell right. Before Spencer notices anything else, he notices that. There's something dark and spicy in the air with only the slightest undercurrent of a musky old book smell. Other things come in fragments. The mattress is a touch too soft, the sheets flannel and too hot against his bare skin. A shaft of light that sneaks in between the curtains warms his face and left arm, and for a moment he'd swear the window should be opposite the foot of the bed. The overwhelming feeling of wrongness crawls under his skin and settles in like an uncomfortable itch he can't quite reach. Unsettled, Spencer turns over onto his back, his arm flopping out across the bed and landing on a slight dip in the mattress. He smooths his fingers over the indentation and frowns as awareness starts to slot itself back into place. He contemplates going back to sleep--things might look a bit clearer with a couple more hours under his belt--but the sun's still hot on his face, painting the insides of his eyelids red, and a dog is barking loud and strong outside, so instead he takes a deep breath, then another, a third, and swings his legs off the edge of the mattress.

The slightly scratchy texture of the carpet against the soles of his feet is familiar, and he nearly trips over the stack of books at the end of the bed that he's been meaning to shelve for weeks now, barely managing to escape with just a stubbed toe, and he curses softly as he hobbles into the bathroom. His body is sore, but loose and relaxed, and his skin is slightly sticky all over with dried sweat; there are traces of come on his stomach and upper thighs that flake off when he scratches at them. It should be annoying--he likes things clean, even if he doesn't particularly care how neat they are--but he can't manage to work up the energy to let it bother him. Not when his belly is twisting with nerves he can't explain and he has to look at the magazine about home repair next to the toilet for a few seconds too long before it clicks in his mind why it's there.

Still, that's something to worry about later, if it's worth worrying about at all, he decides as he jumps into the shower before it has a chance to heat up completely. A small hiss slips out from between his lips when the water hits him and he bounces impatiently under the spray until it warms and fills the small tiled room with steam. For a few minutes, he just stands under the water, tilting his head back so that it beats a soothing tattoo down on his face and shoulders. Once his eyes aren't quite so droopy with sleep and the water's washed some of the fuzziness from his mind, he lathers up a washcloth and quickly washes, sluicing suds and grime away down the drain. When he opens the shower door, he can smell coffee from down the hallway mingling with his shampoo and soap, and he barely spares enough time to pat his body down with a towel before he's wriggling into an old pair of jeans and a worn cotton shirt that's too broad through the shoulders for him, his hair dripping rapidly cooling water onto his shoulders.

There's a mug of coffee sitting on the kitchen counter when Spencer finally stumbles into the large, open room, and he zeroes in on it, grabbing it with eager hands and gulping down a too hot mouthful. It burns the tip of his tongue and tastes like sugar and milk with only the barest hint of bitterness underneath. Perfect.

A light chuckle from behind him finally makes him take in the rest of the room, and his lips quirk in a smile when he sees Derek at the table, pen in hand, paper spread out in front of him, and Clooney stretched happily across his feet.

"You're up early," Spencer says, his voice still rough with sleep, and drops down into the seat across from Derek. He slides a foot under Clooney's side, ignoring the dog's grumpy huff, until their toes bump together. It's a small touch, but it's still enough to ease the itch under his skin and loosen the tension he hadn't realized was in his shoulders. He takes another drink of his coffee, a smaller, more controlled sip this time, and raises an eyebrow at Derek over the rim. "I thought you didn't have to be at the station until this afternoon."

Derek shrugs and taps his pen against the half filled in crossword puzzle he's working on. "I don't, but there are a few things around the house that I want to get taken care of this morning. You nearly killed yourself on that loose porch step the other day and the back door's never really hung right." He pauses and flexes his toes against Spencer's before continuing, his voice a little more cautious than before. "Besides, it was hard to stay asleep with the way you were flailing all over the place last night. After you smacked me in the face a few times, I figured I'd better get out while I still could. Especially once you started kicking."

"You could have woken me up," The coffee suddenly tastes almost too sweet, a sickening cloying taste at the back of his mouth, and Spencer grimaces. "If I'm ever trying to maim or manhandle you in my sleep, you have my full permission to do that."

"I tried," Derek says with another shrug. His face is mostly smooth, but a glimmer of worry tightens the corners of his eyes. "You were really out of it. Do you remember what you were dreaming about?"

Spencer frowns and plucks at the corner of the newspaper, a bit tearing off under his fingers. He slowly shakes his head as he rolls the paper into a small, tight ball. "I can't remember."

"Spencer," Derek says lowly, and Spencer clutches at his coffee mug and kind of hates how Derek's always been able to see right through him ever since that first meeting seven years ago, when Derek had stumbled into the advanced English class Spencer was TAing, hung over and twenty minutes late. He reaches out across the table and takes Spencer's wrist, his fingers a gentle but firm pressure against the delicate bones there. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"Can we just drop it?" Spencer can feel his lips trying to twist into a scowl and he presses them together tightly for a few seconds until the urge starts to pass. Derek's quiet, his thumb slowly brushing back and forth against Spencer's pulse point, and Spencer takes a deep, shuddering breath and smiles at him, a little wobbly, but sincere. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't real and I just want to forget about it."

There was someone following him. Spencer could feel it with the creeping certainty born of being stalked multiple times. It had been a helpful skill in high school when it gave him the slightest advantage over the jocks who wanted to take a couple shots, or worse, but working with the BAU it was almost a godsend and had saved his butt on more than one occasion. He paused by his hotel room window, twitching the curtain out the way so that he could see a sliver of the street below. If he was Derek, he'd run out there, guns blazing and feet kicking, ready to take on whoever was tailing him.

Well, Spencer paused to reflect after a moment. That wasn't completely true. If he was Derek, he'd be two rooms over with the pretty hotel bartender, celebrating wrapping up a case. And Spencer didn't want to think about that, because thinking about that inevitably lead to thinking about Derek naked. Derek, with his mouth wet and open and kiss swollen. Derek sweating, moaning, desperate, his muscles tight, quivering with the shock of release. And he didn't want to, couldn't, handle that. Not then, maybe not ever.

There was a flicker of movement in the corner of Spencer's eye, and he whirled around, his sweat dampened hair falling into his eyes and sticking to his skin. How long had it been since his last haircut? Months? He knew he'd meant to get it taken care of, but he'd kept getting distracted by other things. Because there were always bigger, more important things to worry about than a haircut. Things like the person following him.

He scanned the room, his back safely against the wall so that nothing could sneak up on him, his revolver cool and reassuringly solid in his hand.

He'd seen the movement, knew he'd seen it, but there was nothing in the room with him except for a few pieces of faux wood furniture, his half packed go bag with a mismatched pair of socks dangling out of the opening, and a truly hideous bedspread that he didn't need to be a pyromaniac to want to burn.

Nothing, nobody, except his own reflection staring back at him from the mirror across the room, eyes bloodshot and sunken, complexion sickly pallid, and expression tight and terrified.

Spencer spends most of the morning curled up on their old, creaky front porch swing while Derek works a few yards away from him. He has a stack of term papers balanced on one bent knee, another on the seat next to him, but after the first half hour he doesn't even pretend that he's reading them. Instead, he watches Derek, his eyes tracking him as he drags his workbench and circular saw out into the front yard, noting the way the muscles of his back and shoulders shift when a leg snags on a tuft of grass and he has to lift up. A few essays slip off of his lap when Derek bends over to measure a piece of wood, and Spencer's too busy admiring the firm curve of his butt, snug in a pair of threadbare jeans that Spencer knows would be butter soft under his hands, to stop or even really notice them falling. Clooney dislodges the rest of them when he jumps up onto the swing and flops his head down in Spencer's lap. Spencer absently scratches behind his ears and watches the flex and strain of Derek's forearms and biceps as he pries up the old boards and nails down new ones.

The sun's high and hot in the sky, and by the time Derek starts to put away his things, his shirt has long since been stripped off and his strong body is shiny with sweat. A jogger does a double take when she passes by, nearly stumbling over a crack in the sidewalk, and Spencer bites back a smug smile when Derek doesn't even notice. He can feel a low, familiar heat simmering in his stomach, the same combination of love and arousal he always feels when he looks at Derek, but there's no urgency behind it. He knows the taste of his sweat and skin, has swallowed his moans and come, has mapped out every inch of his skin with fingers and tongue. They belong to each other, tied together as irreversibly as the moon and tide, and have been ever since Derek got drunk and announced in front of his entire fraternity that he was in love with Spencer and planned on spending the rest of his life with him, so he needed to get on board already. Spencer's amused by the admiring glances and less than subtle come ons that are always coming Derek's way, because it doesn't even occur to him anymore that he should be threatened.

Derek jumps up the stairs and falls to sit in an untidy sprawl on the floor, back against the porch railing so that the gentle breeze can still cool his back through the wooden slats, and Spencer passes him a bottle of water from the cooler by his feet. Clooney's asleep and drooling on Spencer's thigh, his quiet snuffling snores a comfortable white noise against the birdsong and traffic, and Spencer can almost pretend that there isn't a tendril of discomfort still curling in the back of his throat as he watches a bead of condensation slide off the bottle, curl over Derek's wrist, and run down the inside of his arm to the crook of his elbow.

"You've got that look again," Derek says as he leans to the side so that he can slip his fingers up under the cuff of Spencer's pants and loop them around his bare ankle, his hand damp and chilly on Spencer's skin. He grins, his smile easy and open, and tugs on Spencer's leg a little. "I always get nervous when you get that look."

"I have a look?" Spencer asks, arching an eyebrow. "What kind of look do I have?"

Derek laughs and scoots closer to press a kiss against Spencer's shin. "You have a lot of looks, pretty boy, all of them gorgeous, but that right there's one of your thinking looks. The last time you got that look, I ended up having to call poison control."

"You ruined my experiment," Spencer says fondly as he slides out from underneath Clooney, who cracks an eye open, glares at the two of them, and goes back to sleep in a nest of papers on surrealist poetry. Derek runs his hand up the back of Spencer's calf, hooks his fingers behind his knee, and pulls so that Spencer stumbles. His hands shoot up and grab Spencer's hips before he can really fall, and Spencer grabs the rails at either side of Derek's head and lowers himself to straddle his lap. "I had to completely start over," he murmurs with his lips against Derek's ear, his breath making the other man shiver.

"Well," Derek says, a slight rough tremor in this voice that makes Spencer's eyes flutter closed, "Maybe next time you mix up a batch of something toxic that just happens to look like lemonade, you'll put it in a beaker instead of that pitcher Sarah gave us."

"Don't be ridiculous, Derek." Spencer traces his nose along Derek's jawline, dipping down to flick his tongue over his pulse when Derek tips his head back in invitation. He tastes like clean sweat and sunshine and Spencer licks him again, a long stripe from just above his collarbone to behind his ear, because he can. "You know the beaker's for the guava juice."

Derek laughs again, a low, dirty chuckle against Spencer's cheek, and pushes the hem of his shirt up to get at skin. "You're kind of crazy, you know that?"

"Yeah," Spencer says. He digs his fingers into Derek's shoulders hard enough to draw a hiss from the other man, his skin sun warmed and slick under his hands, and kisses him, a slow, almost chaste slide of lips. "I know," he murmurs into Derek's mouth and the corner of his own lips quirk up in a small smile. "That's why you love me."

The whispers started in the fall. They were easy enough to dismiss at first. He spent most of his time around other people, even though he knew people probably wouldn't guess that. But he did. Work, lectures, screenings of old horror movies at the local theater, even the library. He was nearly constantly surrounded by others, and the first time he heard the low murmur in his ear, he dismissed it as coming from the woman browsing through the theology books one stack over and promptly forgot about it.

When he couldn't keep ignoring it anymore, he started keeping the television and the radio on all the time when he was at his apartment, both of them running at the same time. At work, he tucked his ipod into his pocket and turned the volume up as high as it would go whenever possible. He avoided being alone, even though he dreaded crowds, never quite certain when he'd respond to a comment nobody had made. In the spring, he mentioned to Morgan that he was interested in going to a club sometime when he wasn't working, just to try and see what the appeal was, and that weekend the two of them ended up at a place where the music pounded loud enough that Spencer could almost ignore hushed syllables that snuck as stealthily as thieves into his ears.

The others thought he was using again, and he let them think it. It wasn't exactly a lie. He still had some connections, could still get his hands on things. And he was careful, never taking too much too often, only indulging when things got really bad. Only when his only other option was screaming his throat raw. Then it was sweet, chemical bliss, the quiet falling around him like a cloak, muffling the sounds around him until he didn't notice them, didn't care when he did.

A small corner of his brain screamed that he needed help, that he needed to tell someone instead of hiding it. Sometimes he'd catch Hotch looking at him like he was disappointed. Garcia hid her worry behind a smile, and Rossi stared at him too long and hard with narrow eyed suspicion. And Morgan. Morgan's hands tightened into fists and his lips twisted into scowls that got progressively darker as the hollows of Spencer's face deepened and his already spare frame grew almost skeletal.

He kept his mouth shut. After all, the voices whispered, if he told them, they'd think he was crazy, and he'd seen how people were treated when everyone thought they were crazy. The last thing he wanted was to end up like his mother.

"You seem a little off today, Spencer. Is everything okay?"

Spencer taps his pen--red, because he's a traditionalist like that--against the paper on Pablo Neruda he's been grading and looks up at his mother, who watches him through the steam rising from the stir fry she's making. The house is different from the one he grew up in out in Vegas, but the table he's sitting at is the same one he did his homework on as a child, a small scar marring the polished wooden surface from a science experiment involving acid that hadn't gone exactly as planned, and the wok his mom is using is the same one she bought when he was fifteen after she and his father went on a second honeymoon to China. The pictures on the wall, the china in the corner hutch, the row of old tins lined up like soldiers on top of the kitchen cabinets; they're all familiar, things he grew up surrounded by, but looking at them now is almost like remembering the plot of a book. He knows the stories behind almost all the things in this room, but it's less like his own memories than something he's just heard about so many times that it seems real.

Diana watches him, her forehead creased with worry, and he quickly smiles and waves a dismissive hand in the air. "I'm fine. Just tired."

"Oh?" She frowns, clearly not convinced, and arches an eyebrow as she pokes at her food with a wooden spoon. "Is it anything you want to talk about? Are you having problems at work? Or maybe with Derek?"

He shakes his head and drops his pen--there's no way he's ever going to get these papers graded at the rate he's going--and moves around the kitchen island, brushing past his mother, to start pulling ingredients for a salad out of the refrigerator. "Nothing like that, mom. I'm just tired. I keep having these dreams..."

Spencer pauses, a package of lettuce clutched too tight in one of his hands, and shudders when his mom reaches out touches his shoulder with a quiet, gentle, "Spencer?"

He clears his throat and shrugs, not quite meeting her eyes. "They're nothing. They're just a little unsettling and it can be hard to shake them sometimes."

Diana strokes his hair back off his forehead and pulls him down to press a quick kiss to his cheek that he pretends to grimace at. "If they get too bad, you can always talk to Jason about it. You know he has a soft spot for you, and ever since he got that new secretary the department's been so well organized that it practically runs itself, so God knows he has the time."

"Yeah, Penelope rules him with an iron fist," Spencer says with a soft snort. Diana's turned back to the stove, but he can tell she's waiting for an answer even if she isn't actually looking at him anymore. He sighs and says, "I'm having lunch with him, Dave, and Aaron next week. I'll talk to him about it afterward." There's still an air of alertness hovering around his mom that doesn't evaporate until he adds, "I promise."

She glances at him over her shoulder and flashes a quick smile at him, before moving to plate their lunches. "Okay, then," she says, the conversation clearly dropped for as long as he wants it to be. She passes him the plates and lets him arrange tidy piles of salad on each of them, then takes one and moves to the table. When he joins her, pushing his student's papers to the side so he doesn't spill anything on them, she smiles at him again, this time with a hint of mischief, and asks, "So, how is that young man of yours?"

"Still a little terrified of you," Spencer says with a smirk.

Diana laughs, her entire body light with it and her head tilted back like the force of her amusement makes impossible for her to do otherwise. "Afraid of me? The boy plays with bombs for a living. You think he'd be able to handle one measly mother-in-law."

"Well, it's not like he's stupid. He knows where the real threat is," Spencer teases, and his chest feels warm and loose when Diana laughs again and shakes her head, a hand lifted between them in a silent acquiescence.

The gun shook in his hand, the handle biting into the slippery, tender skin of his palm. This was wrong. It was all wrong. Hotch said they'd gotten the unsub, he'd seen Morgan lead the man in himself, but he knew, knew, that they'd gotten the wrong person. It was all too perfect, the evidence a little too neat. Too easy. Like someone had planted it. Someone with intelligence and inside access. Someone who could walk right onto a crime scene without turning heads and slip papers in and out of folders without even needing to be sneaky about it, because they were the ones who handled them half the time already.

He was right about this, could feel it in his gut, was choking on his conviction.

Seaver was crying, which he hadn't expected. He wondered whether it was that she was weaker than he had thought or just a better actress. It didn't really matter either way. It would all be over soon.

The gun shook in his hand, but he was a better shot than he had been several years ago.

He was distantly aware of movement in the corner of his eye, a dark blur barreling toward him, but the whispers were louder, ever louder, and he was only human, could only take in so much at one time, no matter what people thought. He wasn't a fucking robot, was just flesh and bone, and the voices were so loud and he was so tired of chasing the bad guys all over the country when there was one right in front of him this entire time.

Seaver's face swam in front of him, blurry like he'd forgotten to put in his contacts that morning. Maybe he had. Her mouth was forming words that he couldn't hear, her pretty face twisted ugly and red and wet with tears. She was shaking, or he was, he couldn't really tell.

The gun shook in his hand and someone--Garcia?--screamed a warning or a plea and the movement was closer, closer, almost right in front of him, almost blocking his shot.

He pulled the trigger.

Spencer's still plagued by a feeling of Not Quite Right that evening, so about an hour before his class is supposed to start he calls his TA and arranges for her to cover the lecture. Ashley's a bright girl, whose surrealist enthusiast father had read her Daumal and Valaoritis as bedtime stories, so while he wouldn't trust her to talk about Byron or Dickinson for more than five minutes, he's confident in her ability to not screw up an hour on Franklin Rosemont. She's a little too enthusiastic about the idea, cutting him off midsentence in her eagerness to say yes, and sometimes he half suspects she's gunning for his job after she finishes her doctorate. Honestly, it had bothered him more when he'd thought she was gunning for a spot in his bed. Thankfully, the overly casual touches, lingering looks that flickered to the side whenever he glanced in her direction, and the truly obscene amount of baked goods had dwindled after the first time Derek had picked him up for lunch and dried up altogether after that one time she forgot to knock and walked in on them in his office.

Still, she's never let on that she'd seen what she had other than some mild blushing and he's never heard any rumors floating around the students or faculty, and for that alone he's willing to consider giving her a recommendation when Rossi retires next year, provided she doesn't do anything to prove she doesn't deserve it in the meantime.

He holes himself up in his study and is trying to make a dent in those blasted essays when he hears the familiar rumble of Derek's truck pulling into the driveway. Clooney, who's been asleep next to his desk on the most mysterious dog bed in the world--Derek didn't buy it and Spencer still claims he has no idea how it got there, it's not like he's the one who brought Clooney home in the first place, and, in case Derek hadn't noticed yet, he doesn't exactly like the damn dog--immediately snaps his head up at the sound and he's racing out of the room and down the stairs with a howl of greeting before Spencer can even put his pen down. He considers going down to say hello, maybe try to convince Derek that they should settle on the couch together for a few hours before turning in for the night--there's a Star Wars marathon on, he remembers suddenly--but then there's the thump, thump, thump of Derek's boots on the stairs, a solid beat to the tune he's whistling. Derek pauses just inside the study doorway, one hand on the frame and the other on his hip, and grins lazily at Spencer.

"Hey, honey, I'm home," he says, his voice tired and smoky deep, and saunters across the room to lean back against Spencer's desk, their legs close enough together that Spencer can feel the heat he's giving off, even though they aren't actually touching yet. "You're not supposed to be, though."

Spencer rolls his shoulder in a half shrug and reaches up to slide a hand up under Derek's arm, palm flat against the wing of his shoulder blade, so he can tug him down for a kiss. "I took a personal day," he murmurs in between slow, easy kisses. "I haven't taken any since that school shooting a few years back, so I'm due for playing a little hooky."

Derek chuckles against his mouth and pushes Spencer's glasses up and off, reaching back around behind himself to drop them on the desk. He cups a possessive hand around the back of his neck, thumb stroking up into his hair. "Spencer Reid, sometimes I think I've been a bad influence on you. Cutting class? Really, what will your mother say when the school calls her to tell her what you've done?"

"Mmm, probably try to ground me and tell me that I'm not allowed to spend time with you anymore," Spencer says tightly, arching up off the back his chair as Derek bites a line of hot, shivery kisses down his throat. Derek works a mark into his neck with teeth and tongue, and Spencer's fingers scramble for purchase at his waistband, suddenly desperate to have him closer. "If you can convince her to let us go to the prom, I promise to put out."

Derek laughs and drops his head on Spencer's shoulder, teasing fingers running up and down his sides. When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark, but his smile and the kiss he presses to the corner of Spencer's mouth are soft. "God, I love you."

Spencer turns his head to kiss him fully, licking into his mouth and curling their tongues together. He pours everything into the kiss. Every love you, need you, can't live without you. When Derek finally pulls away, Spencer's lips feel full and tingly and he wants.

Derek looks at him, his expression hungry, and demands, "Talk to me," and Spencer can only manage a half strangled whimper, because Derek's trailing his fingers up the inside of his thigh. Spencer's legs part without his permission and Derek falls to kneel between them. "You've been acting weird all day, baby. Say something pretty to me, something you'll remember that'll drive you crazy when you're teaching tomorrow."

"I want to sleep with you side by side," he starts as Derek undoes the buttons of his shirt and pushes it off his shoulders. "Our hair intertwined/Our sexes joined/Your mouth for a pillow."

"More," Derek says when Spencer pauses, his lips against his ribs, his tongue flicking out over the bumps, traveling up until he reaches a nipple. "Keep going."

"I want to sleep with you back to back," Spencer says. Derek bites his nipple, short and hard, then soothes the sting with the flat of his tongue, and Spencer clutches at his shoulders so hard the tips of his fingers hurt and almost chokes as he continues. "With no breath to part us/No words to distract us."

Derek hums encouragement against his sternum and grips his hips tight enough that he can't move his hips. He kisses and licks his way down Spencer's chest, occasionally pausing to bite or suck a mark into his pale skin, and Spencer presses up against his mouth, wanting closer, wanting more. When Derek gets to his navel, his scruff scratchy against the sensitive skin of Spencer's stomach, he pauses and looks up. "That's not all, is it?"

Spencer whines once, shakes his head. "No eyes to lie to us/With no clothes on," he says, and Derek dips his tongue into his belly button, drags it down lower to run along the line of his waistband. "To sleep with you breast to breast/Tense and sweating."

"Fuck, you're so good," Derek praises him, his voice harsh and muffled as he mouths at the hard juts of Spencer's hipbones. He unfastens Spencer's jeans one handed, pulls the zipper down slowly, tooth by agonizing tooth, and Spencer groans when his fingers brush against his erection. "I love making you fall apart, making you lose your mind. You're so gorgeous when you're wrecked."

Spencer presses his head back hard against the top of his chair and grits out, "Shining with a thousand quivers." He plants his feet flat on the floor and pushes up, the chair skidding back a few inches, so that Derek can hook his fingers into his jeans and boxers and pull them down and off. Derek kiss the inside of his knee, his thumbs tracing the creases of Spencer's thighs, and Spencer twists his fingers in the neck of his shirt and forces himself not to manhandle him closer to his cock. "Consumed by ecstatic mad inertia. Derek, please."

"Not yet, pretty boy," Derek's breath hits Spencer's dick, hot and damp, and it feels good, so good, and Spencer curses as his cock jumps, the head wet with precome. "Just a little more."

"Stretched out on your shadow," Spencer pants, his knuckles white and his body already tight and shaking. Derek grins up at him, thumbs the tip of his cock, and smooths precome down his length. His mouth hovers just out of reach, his lips parted so that each exhale is a shivery, delicious torture, and Spencer bucks up as much as he can and moans, "Hammered by your tongue," and then Derek's swallowing him down, tight and slick and perfect, and the rest of the poem is nothing but a jumble of vowels and consonants that are lost between Spencer's keening pleas for more.

The drugs worked, or at least that's what everyone told him. If he'd thought about it, he probably wouldn't agree. It was probably a good thing he didn't really think much. Everything was too fuzzy, his thoughts too slippery to hang on to for longer than a moment.

He was a little surprised the first time he had a visitor. Most days he did his best not to remember, but the shadow of what he'd done followed him around even at his least lucid, and the idea that anyone would voluntarily come to see him made his stomach twist with guilt and loathing. But there was Hotch, who came at least once a week, cases permitting. Mostly he read to him, but sometimes he would talk about a case or just sit with him quietly. Once, he was drunk when he came. Not staggering, falling down drunk, but his collar was loose and his footsteps were too deliberate to be anything but calculated. Hotch spent the visit with his hands clasped between his knees and his head bowed, and before he left, he placed a shaking hand on his shoulder and said, "I should have seen it. I'm sorry."

He didn't come back after that.

Garcia stopped by occasionally, once even bringing Seaver with her; Seaver wouldn't quite look at him, but she squeezed his hand, and he thought it was maybe as close to forgiveness as she could offer him. Everything seemed dimmer after Garcia's visits, the entire facility bleached of what little color and energy it had, and he hated seeing her as much as he loved it.

He thought he saw Gideon every few months, his arms tanned brown and his face mostly hidden behind a beard, but the other man never approached and he didn't like to go near anything that might not be real.

Nearly a year after his admittance, Fran Morgan showed up. For several minutes, she just looked at him, more tired than angry, her pretty face drained of the energy he'd once seen there. He braced himself, expecting the worse, but when she started talking, all the accusations he'd expected were anecdotes, each word tinged with sadness, but no hatred. The words seemed to almost spill out of her unbidden and she stayed until visiting hours had long been over, only stopping when her voice was hoarse and cracking. Before she left, she bent to kiss his forehead. It felt like a silent benediction, like an absolution he didn't deserve, and after she was gone, he bowed his head and wept.

The bedroom is peaceful, cricket song and moonlight filtering in through the open window and casting everything in a lazy, silver glow. Spencer and Derek lay tangled together under a sheet with the comforter pushed down to the bottom of the bed, their legs intertwined and arms draped loosely around each other. One of the pillows had been knocked to the floor, so they share one, foreheads together, noses brushing, breathing the same air.

"I love you," Spencer says softly. His eyes are open, but they're so close that they keep crossing when he tries to look at Derek, so he feels more than sees his answering smile.

"I love you, too," he murmurs. His arms tighten around Spencer and he shifts closer until they're pressed flush together from chest to hips.

Spencer hums low in his throat, and he doesn't realize he has anything else he wants to say until he opens his mouth and out tumbles, "I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you."

The confession sounds small and broken hanging in the air between them, and Derek pulls back until he can look at Spencer properly.

"Hey." His voice voice is serious, but gentle, and his touch feels almost careful when he pets Spencer's hair back away from his face, sweeps the pads of his fingers over his cheeks. "I'm not going anywhere."

Spencer swallows, his throat clicking dryly. "But if you did-"

"I'm not," Derek says. He frowns, eyebrows drawn together with concern. "I love you, okay? Sure, one or both of us could walk out the front door and get struck by lightning or hit by a bus tomorrow, but there's nothing you could ever do that would make me leave."

Spencer presses his face into the curve of Derek's neck and clings to him like a lifeline. "Promise me."

"I promise. Forever, Spencer. Even if you never learn to put your socks in the hamper and bore me to tears every day talking about dead writers when I'm trying to watch the game. I promise." The words are said almost before Spencer's finished asking for them, and his grip on Derek turns into something less desperate. He can feel Derek's pulse against his cheek, strong and steady, and he slowly relaxes in Derek's arms, counting his heartbeats until he falls asleep.

He signed up for the experimental drug trial at his doctor's urging. Honestly, he didn't really care anymore at that point, he just wanted the other man to leave him alone. It didn't seem to do much at first, or at least no more than any of the other things they'd tried him on, but it didn't make him nauseous or constipated, which was a step up, and if his head felt more wooly and disconnected than it had before, then he wasn't going to complain about that either.

After a while, though, he started to almost like them. He liked the way they made his limbs feel lighter, the way they made anything pale seem brighter. Sometimes he would just sit for hours looking at anything white. White clothes, white walls, white paper cups. White, white, white-

White clouds, big and fluffy like cotton balls, promising shade, but not storms, hang heavy in the sky when Spencer wakes up. He's on his side with Derek curled against his back, and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes are the clouds outside the window. He smiles and stretches his toes down toward the bottom of the bed, jostling Derek, who mumbles something unintelligible and snuffles at the back of his neck. His body feels light, sated, and Spencer laughs, just because he can. The feeling of unease that had plagued him the day before is gone, and happiness swells in his chest like a balloon, filling him until he feels like he could burst with it. He turns in Derek's arms, his smile spreading into a full blown grin, and kisses the other man awake.

Everything is going to be okay.

***

Thanks for reading! Feedback is always overwhelmingly appreciated!

Yeah, I don't even know, guys. It's not really my usual thing, but the idea just popped into my head and kept bugging me until I wrote it down.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

jerico-cacaw.livejournal.com

Absolutely amazing, I didn't see it coming at first, but once I realized what was going on it made absolute sense. Lovely, lovely, if sad and hearth wrenching :'(

<3!!

From:

Anything, not everything.

Wash the Echoes Out

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