Fanfic: Participation [Criminal Minds]
Title: Participation
Author: wanderingjasper
Rating: R
Characters: Morgan/Reid
Word Count: 6674
Themes: Angst, case-heavy, H/C.
Warnings: Graphic descriptions of sexual crimes against teens, mentions of torture, serious injury, rape and murder. Incident of non-con.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, but I do take liberties with them for no financial gain.
Notes: Can standalone, but references previous fics. Vague timeline setting.
Summary: Reid and Morgan aren't on the best terms after the events of Concept, and Reid's encounter with an unsub complicates things further.
“It is the very use of coercion, positive or negative, that breaks or deadens the spirit, which is the source of motivation.” - Kelly Bryson
James York had kidnapped, raped, sexually tortured and finally murdered five teenage boys (that they could confirm) over the past decade. The BAU had been called in when locals finally connected the most recently disappearance and subsequent body discovery with four others. In the days since they’d arrived in Hancock County, Iowa, another boy had gone missing. Fourteen year old Gregory Taylor had been missing for two days.
As well as having a dangerous predator to track down, the BAU team had had to deal with a chief of police who conflated all male homosexuality with the unsub they were hunting, which had ultimately ended in an illegal raid on a gay bar in which police had brutally beaten three men. Garcia, back at Quantico had been considerably affected by this; and the last time they’d conversed via camera it hadn’t gone unnoticed that in the back of shot there was now a big rainbow flag, and each time she talked to a member of the team another fact or statistic about anti-gay violence tumbled out. Reid, of course, had his own collection of them, and between them Morgan was feeling both informed and depressed by the information. Everything about this case was affecting Morgan more than usual; he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t because he and Reid’s only communication in the last two weeks had been when it was about work or a case. There were no jokes, there was no banter, and Morgan missed it. And now this case, with the anti-gay veins appearing, was a little close to the nerve of the reason the friends weren’t talking.
---
“What did Gregory like to do for fun, Brett?” Morgan asked. The teenage boy ran his thumb around the rim of his soda can, nursing it.
“Computer games.” Brett shrugged. “Baseball. We’re on a team together.”
“Okay.” Morgan nodded, smiling kindly “Anything you tell us can be helpful.”
From her place leaning against a kitchen cabinet Prentiss offered a smile, too.
“You got our GSA shut down,” Brett murmured, meeting Morgan’s gaze.
“Your GSA?”
“...gay-straight alliance,” Brett explained.
“We didn’t mean for that to happen,” Prentiss said.
“I know.” Brett shrugged. “Just, it took three months to get the school to let us have one, and they shut it down today. People said we can try getting it back up and running later... but I think the school was waiting for something like this. Something they could say was a good reason not to let us have a club to go to. Greg kept saying he was gonna come to a meeting.”
“Is Greg gay?” Morgan asked, in a tone that was carefully crafted to not sound hostile at all.
“He said he thought he might be bi,” Brett explained. “He was confused. It’s not like there’s anyone to really talk to here.”
“Do you know if he went anywhere on the internet to try figure things out?”
“I guess.” Another shrug. “Everyone’s on the internet for something. But he wouldn’t meet anyone from the internet or anything-” he added quickly. “Nobody’s stupid like that any more.”
“Are you sure?” Prentiss asked. “People can pretend to be someone different over the internet.”
“But people don’t.” Brett made a face. “People put loads of information on there. Not, like, their address, but they blog and stuff and take pictures of themselves and chat with webcams... most people are who they say. Greg’s not stupid, he wouldn’t meet someone he didn’t know was a real person.”
“Okay,” Morgan sad patiently.
---
“Mr Whitehall, may we come in and talk?” Rossi asked.
“Not if you’re cops,” the man said.
“I’m Special Agent David Rossi,” he said with practiced ease, “and this is Dr. Reid. We’re with the FBI.”
“Not cops?”
“No.”
“Okay.” The man let them in, and they were able to see exactly why the man’s reluctance to talk to police officers was justified. His arm was broken and in a cast, he had three stitches in a gash on his head, and the left side of his face was so bruised his eye was swollen shut. He led them into the living room and they sat, the injured man with a pained sound.
“You told an officer at the hospital that you might have heard something about the man we’re looking for,” Rossi said. “Mr Whitehall, would you tell us what that was?”
“And what’s to stop the cops pinning this all on me, or someone like me?”
“You’re not a suspect-” Reid started.
“Oh please. Police in this town can make anything stick.”
“You’re going to get justice for what happened to you,” Rossi said patiently.
“There were lots of witnesses to what happened,” Reid added.
“Justice? Are you shitting me?” the man scoffed. “Punishment, maybe. If those officers don’t get let off with a demotion or early retirement instead. Justice would be if I could ambush those two officers in the only place in this town they feel safe and beat them unconscious. And the ones that stood back and let them do what they did can stand back and watch it happen again.”
Reid swallowed uncomfortably. Both agents knew it wasn’t their place to tell the man how to feel about what had happen to him.
“Mr Whitehall, please,” Rossi said. “You might be able to help us catch the man we’ve after. He’s killed five teenage boys we know of, and he has one, alive, somewhere right now.”
“There was this guy,” Mr Whitehall relented, “a few weeks ago at the bar. Hadn’t seen him around before. There was a bunch of us talking, and he was weird.”
“Weird, how?” Reid asked.
“He was talking about tricks. Every guy knows another guy who’s turned a trick once or twice, and guys who trick are on the scene like any other guy. It’s no big deal, and it’s nobody’s business except for the people involved in the sex. So nobody on the scene really has a problem with tricks. But this guys... he was talking trash. Really creepy things, rape-y things. Y’know, like about them asking for it, about them getting what was coming to them? God, he made everyone uncomfortable. Then he got his phone out and tried to show people some pictures. Most guys split, but I couldn’t really avoid it and I saw... god, I thought it was just hardcore porn or something. Anything’s on the internet if you want it.”
“What were the pictures of, Mr Whitehall?”
“A guy tied up. Couldn’t see his face, but there was definitely blood. I just thought it was hardcore kinky stuff, I didn’t think it could be... then they started talking about a serial killer. I mean I didn’t see the picture for long, but it didn’t look like a kid. But..”
“Do you remember what the man looked like?” Rossi asked.
“Yeah.”
“Would you consider coming down to the station to sit with a sketch artist?”
“No.” The man visibly flinched and shook his head.
“Sir, I know-” Reid wanted to say something helpful ,but the words didn’t make it.
“No you don’t know,” the man rushed. “How could you possibly know? But I’ve got a picture of him.”
“You have?”
“Yeah,” the man fished in his pocket for his phone, “he was in the shot when I was taking a picture of my friends. Here-” he showed them the phone, “the guy on the left, in the leather jacket.”
---
“Take Reid in with you,” Rossi advised.
“He’s not his type,” Hotch pointed out, obviously understanding Rossi’s intent. Reid listened quietly, with arms folded over his chest. A stolen glance told him that Morgan was staring through the one-way glass at the unsub, didn’t even look up as the men discussed tactics.
“He’s the closest thing we’ve got to a teenage boy.”
It didn’t even occur to Reid to be offended by this idea; if they couldn’t get the unsub to talk, a teenage boy was going to starve to death or worse wherever he was being held.
“Roll your sleeves down, Reid,” Hotch said. Reid nodded and did so, understanding that his arms might be just masculine enough to put off the unsub. Everyone involved in the case had been referring to him as a paedophile for the last three days, and Reid hadn’t corrected them on a more accurate term; he was an ephebophile, as his preference was obviously pubescent boys of around fourteen and fifteen. Reid had learned long ago that when it came to the abuse of children, even if the term paedophilia was incorrectly applied, the words it was labelled with mattered little. Ephebolphilia wasn’t considered a pathology because of the normal levels of attraction adults experienced to those with apparent adult sexual characteristics, but there was nothing normal about this unsub.
He entered the interrogation room behind Hotch and didn’t meet the unsub’s eye. He needed to look as uncomfortable and vulnerable as possible. Morgan, on the other side of the glass watched as the subject’s eyes trained on the agent that wouldn’t look at him as he sat down. He watched as Reid put his hands in his lap under the table and was surprised at just how fluidly Reid could make himself look boyish.
“Are you a faggot?” the unsub, York, asked. Reid exaggerated his reaction to the word, flinching noticeably and squirming in his seat. “You think I’m going to talk to you because you brought a little faggot with you?” he asked Hotch, but his eyes didn’t leave Reid.
“I’m special agent Aaron Hotchner,” Hotch said evenly, “this is Spencer Reid.”
Reid noticed the lack of his usual title, but it made sense; ‘doctor’ was a term reserved for adults. They were attempting to appeal to a predator who liked teenagers.
“So, Spencer,” York drawled, “you gonna answer my question? Are you a fag?”
“We can link you to four-” Hotch began, but the unsub sneered at him.
“Was I talking to you? No, I wasn’t.” He promptly turned his attention to Reid, who still wasn’t looking at him. “How old are you, eleven?” he teased. “The first boy I had had more hair than you. Look at you. Twelve, tops.”
“And you like older boys, don’t you?” Reid said, suddenly lifting his gaze to meet the steely blue eyes of the unsub.
His face flashed with anger and neither agent could react fast enough; York, whose hands were resting cuffed on the table, shot up and smashed Reid hard in the face. The younger agent let out a yelp and clutched at his cheek, his chair rocking dangerously. His head spun but he could hear Hotch shouting, and he understood well enough to push himself away from the table and fumble for the door. He fell through it and was met with large hands on his shoulders to steady him; he blinked a few times as he willed his cognitive function to return to normal and realised it was Morgan.
There was noise and bustling as police officers went into the interrogation room to cuff the suspect more securely. Morgan squeezed his shoulders and Reid wished he wouldn’t because all he wanted to do was flop forward and just lean against the man’s body as the pain in his face passed. He didn’t, of course, and Hotch joined them a few seconds later.
“Reid, are you okay?”
“He’s bleeding, Hotch!” Morgan snapped.
“I’m fine,” Reid said, feeling the cut on his cheek where the metal of the cuffs had caught him stinging. He knew he was going to have an impressive bruise to match. “He didn’t like that I suddenly stopped being scared. He hit me to scare me,” he said surely. “Send me back in on my own.”
“Reid,” Morgan said firmly. Reid shrugged out of his hold.
“He was responding to me.”
“He was playing with you,” Morgan disagreed.
“We’re running out of time,” Reid reasoned, the disorientation gone, replaced by the ache and sting of the wound and blow. “”He’s not going to just talk, he knows he has nothing to gain by cooperating. This is worth a shot.”
“He’s right,” Hotch said. “We’re not going to find Gregory Taylor without York giving us something.”
“Even something he doesn’t mean to,” Rossi added.
Ten minutes later Reid returned to the interrogation room. He had let the trickle of blood from the cut on his cheek dry, and hadn’t wiped it away even though it was pinching at his skin; York was a sadist, and he would delight in seeing the injury he had caused. Hopefully it would help them get something from him.
“Now this is no fair,” York grinned as Reid sat opposite him, “sending you in alone when I’m cuffed like this.” He rattled the cuffs, where they were secured around the metal crossbeam between the two legs of the table.
“Mr York,” Reid said, deliberately leaning one elbow on the table and holding his neck, the other rested on the tabletop, “there are no more reasons for you to not to tell us where Gregory Taylor is. You’re never going to know what happens to him.”
“I have a pretty good idea,” York grinned. “You’ll never find him.”
Reid waited. He knew if he was going to get anything out of the unsub he would have to start it, and Reid would have to tread subtly.
“You never did answer my question earlier,” York said, eyes raking over Reid’s damaged face, “whether you’re a fag or not.”
“Does it make a difference to you?” Reid asked, very aware of very slight change in the man’s breathing as he surveyed the injury he’d inflicted.
“All the difference in the world,” York gave a low laugh. “The second boy I ever had, what was his name? Luke, I think. He said he was straight. And that’s what made him so damn great.”
On the other side of the one-way mirror, Morgan frowned.
“Did he say ‘second boy’?”
“Yes,” Hotch nodded.
“Why would he say that, specify ‘boy’ instead of ‘second one’? The rest of his language since we’ve had him in hasn’t been that gendered.”
“Unless there are female victims we don’t know about,” Hotch nodded, realising what Morgan was getting at. “Do you think Reid noticed?”
“Let’s hope so,” Morgan said, looking back through the glass.
“The second time I fucked him,” York continued, a grin spreading across his face, “he came. I lubed up that time, and he ended up cumming. He cried like a baby. It wasn’t the only time he came, either. It broke him better than cutting him up.”
Reid recalled the case file of the second body, remembered how much less mutilation there had been than subsequent bodies.
“I had him about five days. At the end, there was this little moment,” York gestured along, holding his thumb and forefinger close together, “just a flash, when he knew I was about to kill him, where he was relieved. He was glad to die. But they all die scared.”
“Was it always males?” Reid posed, carefully keeping his face from reacting to the story the unsub told.
York looked a little surprised that the agent would even ask such a question. He sat back in his seat, taking a long breath in through his nose.
“It started with girls,” he confirmed. “Girls are so much easier to take. But they’re disappointing; girls get told, from the day they’re born, to expect to be attacked, raped and killed,” he said matter-of-factly. “They’re taught what they have to do to avoid these things, and most times they’re blamed when they happen to them. Girls are conditioned to stop fighting, to give up, to accept it. So, I tried a boy, and it was so much better. Boys fight so much longer. They have this ingrained idea that’s the opposite of girls, this idea that these things never happen to them. When they can’t believe it, they fight it. And the fight is oh so good,” York said emphatically.
In the adjoining room, Hotch hadn’t noticed Prentiss slipping in.
“How fucked up is it that he’s right?” she muttered.
“He’s not going to give us anything,” Morgan said, although he was still staring through into the interrogation room. “He’s just messing with Reid.”
“Reid’s quite capable of handling himself,” Rossi pointed out. Morgan pursed his lips in annoyance. He knew that. And he knew he shouldn’t care this much. He couldn’t read Reid’s face because he was mostly in profile; the table was angled so the profiler’s back was mostly to them; the focus was on York’s face and body language.
“The ones that don’t accidentally enjoy it can be just as good, though,” York explained, leaning in close as his restraints would allow. Reid didn’t move. “They’ll do whatever you want; bark like a dog, moan like bitch, ride you like a whore, if it’s the option instead of hurting them. And no matter how many times you lie, how many times you promise not to burn them if they get on their knees and suck you off but still burn them anyway, they always do it. Because their brain convinces them that this time you promise it you might keep it.”
Reid swallowed, and it seemed so loud in the small room. He didn’t break eye contact, couldn’t, because he was watching as York’s pupils dilated; he was becoming aroused. If he let him talk, there might be something, some clue as to where Gregory Taylor was being kept.
“Number three was the worst. Colby,” York was smiling, almost conversational if it weren’t for the hoarse undertone to his voice. “It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. I kept him too long. Two months. Can you believe that? Way too long. He wasn’t even human by the end of it. It wasn’t any good at the end, it was like taking batteries out of a doll that had needed them changed for a while. The rest of them were so alive at the moment I took their lives. The first month was great, don’t get me wrong; he was such a fighter. But it was really anti-climatic at the end. There’s only so much you can hurt someone before they lose their soul. Breaking them is great, but what happened with Colby was so far beyond broken.”
Reid almost flinched when he felt something brush his leg. York grinned at him as he stroked his calf through the fabric of his slacks with a bare foot. He didn’t think his team on the other side of the glass could see this action; he was pretty sure they’d stop it if they did. Reid tried not to do anything they could read; it wasn’t that he wanted to let the unsub touch him, at all, but if he reacted he might shut down completely.
“Kieran, the one before Gregory,” York went on, stroking slowly over the agent’s calf, “he was my favourite. He had this lovely white skin that looked so good when I opened him up.” His foot went higher, grazing up Reid’s leg. “Big brown eyes like yours, looked great when he cried.” The foot moved past Reid’s knee. “Let me out of these cuffs and I’ll tell you where the boy is.”
“You won’t,” Reid said. York smiled.
“You’re right.” He nodded. “But if you leave this room,” he said pointedly, bare foot inching along the inside of the agent’s thigh, “I’ll definitely never tell.”
Reid knew he was inferring more than his request for Reid to stay in the interrogation room; it was a veiled assertion that he shouldn’t draw attention to what was going on underneath the table. The unsub’s foot had reached his groin.
“David, number four, do you want to hear about him?”
Reid didn’t say anything. Of course he didn’t, but they had nothing else to go on; listening to this sexual sadist reminisce about his crimes wasn’t even a sure way for them to make him reveal where the last missing boy was.
“He was loud. Really loud. No surprise really, considering what I did...” York chuckled. He rubbed his foot over Reid’s groin, and the agent had to stop a sound of discomfort from sounding out of his mouth. If his team realised what was happening and pulled him out they would never find out where the boy was.
“If you tell us where Gregory Taylor is-” Reid started.
“What? What are you going to offer me?” York pressed harder with his foot. “You’re not giving me what I want right now,” he said cryptically. It probably didn’t mean anything to his team was they watched, but as the unsub continued to rub his crotch through his trousers Reid had a fair idea what he wanted. He blinked a little too slowly. York’s face stretched out in a grin.
“Gregory is going to remember me for the rest of his life,” York said. Reid’s grasp on his neck shifted. That wasn’t right. That didn’t make sense. York wasn’t careless with his words, he was intelligent and eloquent. Things ticked and whirred in Reid’s head, until they snapped into place; he understood. He knew what he had to do.
Reid shifted a little in his seat, aware that doing so pushed his groin into the unsub’s groping foot. York laughed darkly and began talking again.
“Tommy, the first boy. They say you always remember your first...” Reid kept watching his face, knew he was still talking because he could see it, but his voice zoned out. He couldn’t pay attention to the words to achieve what he knew he had to do. He concentrated instead on the pressure of his groin, focused on the motion. He attempted to dismantle the association between the physical act being performed non-consensually upon him and the serial killer sitting opposite him, talking at him. His gaze lost focused and he stared through the unsub’s face, letting the control his brain had been attempting to hold over his body unravel. Unconnected thoughts flittered across his consciousness, random imagery as his brain struggled with being instructed to slow.
It was a memory that made it happen. A memory of his flesh pressed against rich dark skin, of the thrum of tense muscle below his hands, of stretching force contained in tight heat. Reid’s cock stirred and began to harden. York’s eyebrows danced upwards a little but he didn’t stop regaling the agent with the recollection of the first boy he’d tortured and killed, and his foot ran along the increasingly stiff length. Reid continued to stare right through, kept his brain from rebelling and resisting. He had to let this happen. Now the physical process was set in motion Reid concentrated most of his effort on keeping his mind blank; he did not want another memory, a good memory, swimming into the forefront of his mind and being used by his brain to encourage what was happening. Those memories were not tools, they were private, they were special.
The rest of his effort went into keeping his breathing even. If his team knew, they would stop him, and he wouldn’t be able to live down the shame. York’s foot pressed harder, moved faster. Reid wanted it to stop, wanted to move away from the invasion of his space and get as far away as possible, but he knew he couldn’t. His perception of time was skewed; it could have been minutes, but it felt so much longer.
York’s foot stopped abruptly. Reid’s groin throbbed at the lost contact and he let a tiny shaking breath out between his lips. He wanted curl into a ball right there and disappear.
“There’s a cabin five miles north of the old railway bridge,” he said in a satisfied tone, looking Reid up and down. “Once the path disappears, there’s a paper birch every three hundred yards until you get there. You’ll need bolt cutters, and paramedics.”
On the opposite side of the glass, everyone was suddenly at attention.
“Morgan,” Hotch said, “you heard him.” He nodded to the local detective, who quickly left. “Go.”
“Okay,” Morgan said, but he didn’t move. He continued to watch the unsub through the glass. He was sure he had just seen him move his leg back to his side of the table and slip it back into his shoe, even though he hadn’t noticed him shoeless in the first place. Presently Reid exited the interrogation room, not meeting anyone’s eyes.
“He just told you?” Prentiss asked sceptically.
“I knew he was going to tell me,” Reid said. “As soon as he said that Gregory would remember him for the rest of his life. You don’t talk about the rest of a life if it’s going to be over in a few days.”
“Morgan, go,” Hotch said firmly. He spared a glance at Reid, eyes raking up and down him before he left.
“Well done, Reid,” Rossi said. Reid was rocking slightly on the balls of his feet.
“I’m just-” he didn’t finish the sentence, instead leaving the room swiftly. This didn’t register as strange to the other agents; they had heard everything too from a distance, had listened to York talk about rape and torture and murder in detail; Reid being shaken was normal. It would be more worrying if he didn’t need some time to gather himself.
---
Within an hour and a half, Gregory Taylor was found alive. He was beaten so badly he couldn’t walk, and the two huge gashed to his face would require thirty stitches between them. York giving up his location made sense then; Gregory would never be allowed to forget what happened to him. York had made sure of that, and he would have that knowledge for the rest of his life, even if he spent it incarcerated in solitary. They had realised that York had planned that to happen as soon as he was aware the authorities were closing in on him; had marked the teenager permanently, and had intended to divulge his location all along so he could survive, and serve as a reminder of York’s legacy.
Reid didn’t talk to anyone, and when they boarded the jet to return to Virginia he headed straight for the couch, facing inwards and went to sleep. The team shared sympathetic looks; they all had cases that left them like that. Morgan was replaying what he had witnessed through the one-way glass in his head when Prentiss, sat opposite him, spoke.
“I keep thinking about what Gregory’s friend said.”
“Hmm?” Morgan sounded, looking up from untangling the wire of his headphones.
“About him thinking he was bisexual,” she elaborated. JJ, Rossi and Hotch were listening, but didn’t make it obvious. “It’s gonna be awful. If he realises later that he is bisexual, or gay, even, and he’s brave enough to come out in a town like that, everyone is gonna think it’s because of what he went through. And he’s gonna wonder if that’s true, too, because I don’t see anyone in a town like that telling him any different.”
Morgan didn’t say anything, although he managed a look of empathy. Emily had no idea how similar her theory sounded to thoughts Morgan had been having himself.
---
“Reid.”
Reid closed his eyes briefly, and didn’t look around.
“What, Morgan?” he said shortly.
“Hey, kid.” Morgan stepped closer in the empty bullpen. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Reid said folding his arms over his chest and turning on the spot to face the older man.
“You sure? You don’t look fine, dude,” Morgan said kindly.
“Well it wasn’t exactly an easy case,” Reid said dismissively, looking away.
“I know.” Morgan nodded. “That’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What?” Reid.
“When you were talking to York in interrogation,” he said carefully, surveying Reid’s face, “he... had his shoe off. You realised that, right?”
Reid didn’t say anything. Why did Morgan, of all people, have to notice that? Why did it have to be Morgan who knew?
“And his foot...” Morgan said slowly, finally vocalising his suspicion in response to Reid’s blank look. “Where was his foot, Reid?”
“Where do you think?” the younger agent snapped, gaze flickering to meet Morgan’s. The darker man frowned in shock.
“Reid,” he breathed. “Why would you do that?” he asked in a hushed voice. “I mean why would you let him do that?”
“I didn’t really have much of a choice,” Reid defended.
“You said you knew he was going to tell you.”
“He was already groping me when I worked that out,” Reid hissed, casting around to make sure the bullpen was still empty.
Groping. Morgan felt a sickening jolt in his stomach.
“Reid, why?” anger was beginning to creep into his hushed voice. “Why would you let an unsub do that to you, if you knew he was going to tell us where the kid was?”
“Morgan!” the genius hushed. “What do you think would have happened if I left when I knew? He’d of told us, sure. But the police weren’t going to wait however long it would take him. He could have drawn it out for at least two days before Gregory died from dehydration. He would have suffered. I did what I had to, to get him the medical attention he needed.”
“So you let him assault you?” Morgan asked. “Because that’s what it was.”
“I consented,” Reid said, even thought he didn’t quite believe the words.
“Coercion isn’t consent,” Morgan said, voice suddenly thickening with emotion. “Damn it, it’s not, Reid.”
“I actively participated, man, I-” Reid started, then shook his head.
“What do you mean, you participated?” Morgan asked incredulously.
“Morgan, I don’t want to talk to you about this,” he said, reaching for his messenger bag from his desk.
“Reid-”
“No!” he said, turning away.
“Reid, c’mon-” Morgan reached out, fingertips brushing the man’s shoulder. Reid whirled around, his face coming within a few inches of Morgan’s, staring him down.
“I got an erection. Okay?” he said darkly. “Happy? That’s how I participated. It worked.”
“Reid,” Morgan breathed, face softening with concern, putting a few more inches between them so he could look at Reid’s face. “Reid, how many sexual assault cases have you seen, read about, where somebody’s body reacted to physical stimulation? It doesn’t equal consent, and you know that.”
“It was the only way,” Reid said, shoulders so tense he was shaking a little. “It was the only way to get him to tell me.”
Morgan shook his head. It couldn’t be. This job couldn’t make someone he cared about do that. He knew exactly what it was like to be coerced into sex he didn’t want, made to feel he couldn’t say no, and the idea of a job he loved so much doing that to another person made him feel sick.
Reid interpreted his friend’s shaking head as disapproval, and he slung his bag over his shoulder and slipped around the broader man.
“Reid,” he said, but the man didn’t look around. “Reid, c’mon. Do you need a ride home?”
Reid stopped, shoulders slumping before he turned around slowly.
“Don’t, man.”
“What?”
“I told you last time, we can’t do that again.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Morgan said, laughing a little nervously.
“So you’re saying if you gave me a ride home,” Reid started, the apparent intrigue of his tone laced with sarcasm, “you’d turn me down if I asked you to come up to my apartment again? You’d turn me down, right? Since I made it clear last time I wasn’t okay with a casual physical relationship, and you’ve just scolded me for essentially prostituting myself to break a case? You’d turn me down, right?”
“Reid...” Morgan didn’t know what to say. “I wasn’t calling you a prostitute.”
“It sure sounds like it,” Reid spat. “First it’s ‘how could you let him do that’, then it’s ‘he coerced you’. Make up your mind, Morgan; do you think I’m a whore or not?”
“Reid.” Saying the man’s name wasn’t calming him at all. Morgan shook his head, because he had no idea what he could do to ease the man’s distress, which was plain as he spoke. “I don’t think you’re a whore, kid.”
“No? But you ask me if I want a ride, and we both know what that’s code for now, even after I told you I don’t want this, because you want it to happen.” Reid rubbed a hand down over his mouth and jaw, hard enough that he felt the damaged skin of the cut of his face separate again. He spoke through the sting of pain. “I feel like a prostitute.” Reid gave a damaged laugh. “I didn’t have a choice, man.”
Morgan took a few steps towards the agitated man, who flinched and rubbed at the corners of his eyes with his fingertips.
“I know, Reid,” he admitted. “I just hate that that you had to do that. I hate that you didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t judging you, I’m sorry. I was just shocked.”
This assertion seemed to calm Reid a little, as he crossed his arms loosely over this thin chest. He tried to smile, but it faltered and he let it slip away.
“Kid, let me give you a ride home.” Morgan said kindly. “I promise I won’t come up, even if you ask.” Reid nodded, turning and letting Morgan fall into step beside him.
---
“I’m sorry,” Morgan said, glancing away from the road to look at Reid for a second.
“What for?”
“The last time,” he said simply. Reid understood what that referenced.
“I was a tool. I just... I’m straight,” he said weakly. Reid turned his face towards him.
“I’m not,” he said. Morgan glanced at him again.
“Are you...?”
“I don’t know. And it’s frustrating the hell out of me,” Reid murmured.
“How hard can it be?” Morgan said. “If you like women you’re straight, if you like men you’re gay, if you like both you’re bi, if you don’t like any, you’re, what? Asexual, right?”
“It’s really not that simple.” Reid gave a laugh. “I’ve been reading.”
“No surprise.”
“Gender theory, academia on human sexuality. It’s not simple when you’re not sure.”
“Why do you have to worry?” Morgan asked. “Can’t you just, y’know, do your thing?” he teased gently.
“That’s easy for you to say.” Reid waved his hand. “You’re so sure you’re straight you can have sex with men and still know.”
Morgan didn’t say anything; he felt weird letting his friend continue to believe the lie he had told him, that Reid hadn’t been the first man he’d had sex with, but the alternative seemed so much worse. The alternative meant having to ask himself how he felt about Reid, meant he had to acknowledge how different it had felt on an emotional level to be with his friend.
Morgan stopped the car outside Reid’s apartment building, and leaned back in his seat with his wrist resting on the steering wheel.
“Thanks,” Reid said, slipping his seatbelt off.
“Reid, are you gonna be okay?” Morgan asked.
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“The last time we had a hard case...” Morgan trailed off.
“I’m not going to take drugs.” Reid sounded offended, but Morgan didn’t apologize for asking; he remembered how desperate the man had looked before the first time they had sex, when it had been a choice between having sex or getting high.
“If you need company...”
“Company, Morgan?” Reid gave a disbelieving laugh.
“Like you did then.”
“Good night, man.” Reid shook his head, turning and getting out of the car.
Morgan watched him walking up the steps to the door of his apartment building, waited until he was no longer in sight, and then let his head drop back against the seat. He hadn’t asked just because he wanted to have sex with Reid again - he did, of course - but because he remembered the parallels of Reid before and after their first encounter; before he had been nervous, shaking, lost as he considered injecting himself. Afterwards he was calm and lucid, and had slept peacefully against Morgan. Morgan would have allowed his friend that again, if Reid had wanted it.
Derek remembered how good it had felt to fall asleep against the man’s back, how his shoulder blades had been a firm pressure against his chest that wasn’t uncomfortable. He’d woken early, and in the few moments between sleep and full consciousness he’d rested his lips on the other man’s shoulder as his hand ran circles on Reid’s thigh, and those few minutes had been better to him than the night before. But waking rationale had crept in soon after, and he’d left before Reid woke up.
He sighed to himself and revved the engine, reminding himself again that he was straight and Reid was his friend. It was that simple.
He was a liar.
“The truly scary thing about undiscovered lies is that they have a greater capacity to diminish us than exposed ones. They erode our strength, our self-esteem, our very foundation.” - Cheryl Hughes