Chapter Text
Los Angeles, 03:12 hours
Warehouse District, Joint Operation Site
Derek Morgan hated CIA ops.
It wasn’t just the arrogant agents in tailored suits who acted like they were too good for the dirt and blood of real fieldwork. It wasn’t even the jurisdiction battles, the power plays, the red tape that coiled around every mission like a noose.
It was him.
Spencer Reid.
Every time that name showed up in a mission briefing, Morgan felt the same punch-to-the-gut pressure. Because it meant walking the line again—the razor-thin edge between the man he loved more than life, and the team he’d die to protect.
And lately, that line was bleeding.
“Why is it always them?” Garcia muttered beside him, voice sharp with fatigue. Her pink tactical goggles caught the glare of a nearby streetlamp, glowing like candy glass. “Does Langley have a shortage of agents, or is it just fun to make us play nice with the world’s frostiest robots?”
“Breathe, Penelope,” JJ murmured, checking her sidearm with quiet focus. “You screaming mid-op is not the kind of soundbite I want playing at my funeral.”
Garcia rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
Behind them, Rossi toyed with an unlit cigar, rolling it between his fingers like it was a prayer or a warning. “CIA thinks they’re the masterminds. We’re just the gloves they put on to keep their hands clean.”
JJ snorted. “Too bad we’re not dumb enough to be puppets.”
Morgan tuned out the chatter. His eyes were locked on the black SUVs rolling to a stop at the curb—unmarked, but impossible to mistake. He knew the order of exit before the doors opened. He always did.
First: Jason Gideon.
No-nonsense, sharp-eyed, grim as ever. He stepped out with that quiet authority that never needed raising its voice to be heard. A legend in the shadows, and the only man Morgan had ever seen Hotch hesitate around.
Next: Aaron Hotchner, moving like a blade—clean, quiet, deadly. His eyes swept the perimeter, calculating everything before anyone spoke.
Then came Emily Prentiss, eyes sharp, face unreadable, her stride brisk and unyielding.
And then—
Morgan’s chest clenched.
Spencer.
Tactical vest hugging his frame. Cargo pants slightly loose on his too-thin legs. That same stubborn hair that no regulation ever tamed. His fingers twitched like they wanted a book, not a Glock.
He didn’t look at Morgan.
Of course not. He never did—never on joint ops, never in front of Hotch or Gideon, never where a glance could cost more than either of them could afford.
But Morgan saw it.
The flicker of hesitation.
The tension in his shoulders.
The way his hands stayed locked at his sides like he was resisting the instinct to reach out.
“We’ve confirmed the target location,” Spencer said, handing a slim file to Gideon. “Thermal picked up four hostiles. No civilian signatures. Possible mobile lab setup.”
Gideon flipped through the file, nodding slowly. “Good. We go in quiet. Fast. No showboating.”
“Of course,” Rossi muttered under his breath. “CIA gets the intel. We get the body count.”
Garcia pushed her goggles up onto her forehead. “God forbid they share a briefing before the bullets start flying.”
“We’re sharing it now,” Prentiss said coolly, stepping closer. “You’ll get full recon data and building schematics. We’re not here to hold your hands. We’re here to finish this.”
“With us dragging it across the finish line,” JJ added under her breath.
Morgan stepped in before it could spiral. “All right, enough. We’re not here to measure dicks. We’re here to stop a threat.”
That’s when Spencer looked at him. Just a flicker.
Long enough for Derek to read the message in his eyes: I’ve got you. Don’t blow this.
Morgan gave nothing away. He turned to Gideon. “What’s the entry plan?”
Spencer answered instead. “North approach. It’s the only angle without motion-activated lighting. There’s a twenty-seven-foot blind spot near the loading dock.”
JJ tilted her head. “And you’re certain?”
“Ninety-eight point six percent,” Spencer said without flinching.
Garcia raised a brow. “Is that real math or Reid math?”
“Same thing,” Prentiss replied. “If he says it, believe it.”
Rossi scoffed. “I’ll believe it when my team doesn’t get perforated.”
Gideon’s voice was calm, firm. “You won’t—if you stick to the plan.”
Morgan didn’t reply. His gaze drifted back to Spencer, the weight of a thousand memories pressing on his ribs—stolen hours, secret vows, mornings with Spencer asleep against his chest like he was made for it.
And now? Now Spencer stood fifteen feet away, locked behind layers of protocol, and might as well have been a continent.
This is the job, Morgan told himself. You both knew what it meant.
Didn’t make it any easier.
“Derek,” JJ said softly. “You good?”
He blinked. “Fine.”
“You sure?” Her eyes flicked between him and Spencer. “Because you’ve got a twitch going. And not your normal angry-at-bureaucracy twitch.”
Garcia frowned. “You’re giving serious protective-wolf-in-a-trap energy. It’s not a good look.”
Morgan turned away, forcing the panic back down. “Gear up. We move on the north side in ten.”
The team began to break off, falling into familiar rhythms. But Morgan looked back one last time—just long enough to catch Spencer still and silent beside Prentiss, his fingers clamped around a pen like it was the only thing anchoring him.
This wasn’t sustainable.
The ops were stacking up. The looks were becoming harder to explain. And JJ and Garcia—smart, sharp, loyal—were already starting to piece together the outlines of a story they didn’t even know they were in.
And if anyone found out the truth?
That Derek Morgan, SWAT’s golden boy, and Spencer Reid, CIA’s brightest mind, were married under sealed federal clearance?
Everything would burn.
-------------------------------
The silence in the house was deafening.
Derek Morgan had lived through hostage situations, live-fire ambushes, and brutal ops that didn’t let up for days—but this, waiting three hours past when Spencer said he’d be home, was something else entirely.
This kind of silence seeped into your bones.
It pressed down on your chest like a weight you couldn’t shift.
It whispered worst-case scenarios with a voice that wouldn’t shut up.
He checked his phone again—six missed calls to Spencer. All unanswered. A scroll of unread messages. Still nothing.
Derek dragged a hand over his face, pacing the living room again. His vest and gear had been tossed by the door hours ago. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat he hadn’t even registered. The coffee on the counter was cold.
He looked at the clock. 10:28.
He was going to kill Gideon if this was his fault. If he’d dragged Spencer into some long-winded debrief or philosophical breakdown of the op without telling anyone.
His hand hovered over his phone for a seventh call—just as the door clicked.
And opened.
Derek froze.
Then Spencer stepped inside, hair tousled, clothes wrinkled and streaked with dust, looking like he’d been through hell and back.
“Hey—” Spencer barely got the word out before Derek crossed the room in three long strides and pulled him into a tight embrace.
Spencer dropped his bag with a dull thud and melted into him like it was the only place he’d wanted to be all day. His arms wound around Derek’s neck, legs lifting off the ground without hesitation. Derek caught him, holding him close—close enough to feel his heartbeat, close enough to finally exhale.
“Jesus, baby,” Derek murmured into his neck. “Where the hell have you been?”
Spencer clung tighter, like he couldn’t bear to let go. “I’m sorry. I got stuck with Gideon.”
Derek blinked, pulling back just enough to see his face. “Gideon?”
Spencer sighed, exhaustion written in every line of his body. “He... wouldn’t let me leave. After the op, he wanted to ‘talk through things’—then that turned into dissecting every tactical decision I made, and somehow that became a lecture about instinct and trust and the nature of fear. He made me stay.”
Derek stared at him. “For three hours?”
“I didn’t have my phone,” Spencer added quickly. “I left it in the van during the op. I didn’t even realize how late it was until we were walking out of the compound, and by then I figured you'd be—”
“Worried out of my goddamn mind?” Derek finished, voice strained.
Spencer nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. That.”
Derek exhaled hard and pressed his forehead to Spencer’s. “You’re killing me, pretty boy.”
Spencer offered a faint smile and brushed his lips to Derek’s cheek. “You’re always so dramatic when you’re worried.”
“Because I love you, dumbass.”
That got a soft laugh—a breath into Derek’s neck as Spencer nuzzled closer. “You’re not supposed to call your husband a dumbass.”
“I’ll call you whatever I want if you disappear for three hours without a word.”
“I didn’t disappear,” Spencer whispered. “I just couldn’t get away.”
Derek carried him to the couch, Spencer still wrapped around him like a clingy, brilliant koala. He sank down, keeping Spencer in his lap, arms locked tight around him.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight,” Derek said, kissing the curls at his temple. “Gideon can keep his riddles and lectures to himself.”
“I wasn’t planning on moving,” Spencer murmured. “You smell like cedar and sweat. It's weirdly comforting.”
“You smell like old books and suppressed anxiety.”
Spencer giggled—a soft, real one that warmed Derek’s chest.
“I missed you,” Spencer whispered.
“I missed you more,” Derek said, brushing his knuckles along Spencer’s cheek. “You wanna tell me what else happened today?”
Spencer let out a quiet breath, head resting on Derek’s shoulder.
“It was mostly fine,” he mumbled. “Until one of the suspects bolted. I chased him—ended up cornering him alone. He pulled a knife.”
Derek tensed. “He what—”
“I’m fine,” Spencer said quickly. “Didn’t even get scratched. But it took a while to disarm him, and by the time backup arrived, Gideon was already spiralling into damage-control mode. He refused to let anyone leave until he’d processed it in his own... Gideon way.”
Derek scowled. “You shouldn’t have been dealing with that alone.”
Spencer gave a lopsided shrug. “I wasn’t with you. That’s different.”
Derek didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when Spencer’s hand settled right over his heart like it belonged there.
They sat in silence for a while, the city breathing just beyond the windows. Safe behind their walls and the complicated lives they led.
Spencer spoke again, voice soft. “Did Garcia say anything?”
Derek groaned. “She and JJ both. Garcia gave me that look—like she thought I was going to morph into a shadowy agent of betrayal at any second.”
Spencer smiled into his shoulder. “She’s not wrong about the overprotectiveness.”
“You chased down a guy with a knife, Spencer.”
“That’s just Thursday.”
“I swear, I will lock you in this apartment.”
“You’d miss me too much.”
“Damn right I would.”
Derek kissed him, slow and sure and aching. Spencer responded immediately, fingers in his hair, mouth soft and yielding. They kissed like they hadn’t seen each other in days, like they needed to touch just to be sure they were still real.
When they pulled apart, Spencer was flushed, breathing shallow, but smiling.
“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good,” Derek murmured, pulling the blanket over them both as Spencer snuggled in closer. “Because next time Gideon holds you hostage for a soul-searching lecture, I will storm Langley myself.”
Spencer chuckled. “You don’t have that clearance.”
“I’ll make Garcia hack me some.”
“You’d commit cybercrime for me?”
Derek kissed his forehead. “Without hesitation.”
Spencer’s eyes fluttered shut, body relaxing completely in Derek’s arms. Safe. Home.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Derek rested a hand over his heart. “I love you more.”
And for the first time that day, the silence in the house was a comfort—not a warning. Not a threat. Just peace.