#shortmc

Luke watches his partner light his blunt with a strange sort of fascination, the flames of his lighter bathing the dark air around them in a golden glow, every freckle scattered across Spencer’s cheeks burning bright, creating constellations of beautiful imperfections against pale skin like the starry sky overhead, veiled behind a layer of smoke; it’s breathtaking.

He always finds himself wondering how he got so lucky on nights like this, watching the genius come undone before him, burning out like the universe’s brightest star, beautiful in its tragic death with every long drag, leaving only a trail of ash and awe behind.

“Luke.”

He lets Spencer grab the front of his shirt, pulling him into a deep, desperate kiss, keeping their lips locked together until it’s almost dizzying, leaving the two of them gasping like it’s their first taste of fresh air after a lifetime of holding their breaths, the smoke on the younger brunette’s breath flooding his lungs until his head is spinning.

“Second-hand highs are weak; it’s like a placebo.” His partner told him once, mistaking Luke’s fascination with worry, but he never cared about the drugs—the marijuana, or nicotine, or whatever else his partner is experimenting with that day—they’re not the source of that high they’re both chasing, Spencer is.

Being with the genius feels like floating, tongue and lips loose, desperate for another hit of the lingering taste of over-sweetened coffee and weed, the smell of old books and cigarette smoke, for his voice rambling on, unafraid of Luke’s disinterest because he knows his lover will always be listening, the only concrete aspect of his crumbling life. 

There are some days where Spencer can’t help but hate his body.

It isn’t only about his weight, his odd, gangly limbs and lanky frame have plenty of ways to betray him besides making the genius fixate on the bits of healthy fat he’s been gaining recently—he’s uncoordinated and clumsy, his joints ache from a lifetime of injuries on his over-stressed body, and his brain seems to be working against him half the time—but there’s always something.

He’s gotten used to it by now, exchanging his usual, well-fitting outfits for ones a size bigger to hide his figure and holding his tongue at work, eagerly awaiting when he could go home and hide in bed under a mountain of blankets for the rest of the night; they had just become part of his routine.

At least, until he started dating Luke.

He didn’t have to tell Luke about his bad days, or when they happened, or how to deal with them; somehow he just knew.

The older agent doesn’t say anything as they get ready in the morning, silently sliding his partner’s meds across the counter with a piece of toast and his coffee, and kissing his head before going to pack a few extra fidget toys and a few other tools Spencer typically only uses to self-regulate in the privacy of their apartment in his work bag.

Luke doesn’t walk on eggshells around him, doesn’t baby him, or ask him how he’s doing every five minutes, giving Spencer some distance while occasionally shooting him a glance across the bullpen, grinning at him if the genius isn’t buried in his work until it’s time for them to leave.

“We’re gonna head out,” He announces with an air of authority that keeps the rest of the team from questioning their early—or rather, on time—departure, gently tapping his partner’s desk to get his attention after Spencer donned his noise-canceling headphones after lunch, grabbing his satchel as the younger brunette silently collects himself. “Goodnight everyone.”

They leave following a crowd of soft goodbyes from their coworkers, silent until they get to Luke’s car.

“Hungry?” He asks, adjusting the volume of the radio until the old songs his partner likes listening to as they drive are merely background noises.

“No.” Spencer answers simply, fidgeting with his fingers as his boyfriend pulls out of the lot, knowing his answer is enough for Luke.

“I’ll make you something light.” Luke nods, the unspoken implication that he has to eat something while also understanding how Spencer’s feeling hangs in the air between them as the two agents lapse into silence for the rest of the ride.

Penelope arrives at the hospital in the morning—though it’s only been a few hours since JJ last spoke to Spencer—with an almost excessive amount of blankets, meeting confused faces from a few of her packmates that still linger in the halls while they wrap up the case.

“Moving in, Baby Girl?” Derek chuckles, helping the blonde with her bags as she gets her bearings.

“Our Boy Genius asked me to bring materials for a nest, but you know how picky he can be,” Penelope sighs, smelling like sweet peppermint tea and stress. “I wasn’t sure if he wanted blankets that smelled like him or us like a usual nest, or just more comfortable ones since he’s sharing it with an alpha– What’s the deal with this alpha, by the way? Hotch said we didn’t have a name, but I wasn’t sure if that was to stop me from running a background search on him or not. How is he? What does he smell like? Is Spencer staying in the nest with him–?”

“Breathe, Pen,” Emily reminds her packmate, patting her shoulder. “I’m sure Spence will be happy with whatever you brought.”

“She has a point; what do we know about this alpha? Do we have a name? How is he the only victim to survive, and how long was he in captivity? What happens if he forgets where he is and lashes out?” Derek asks, adding to the heavy concern hanging in the air while he makes eye contact with JJ, the blonde sighing under her team’s stares.

“Spence gave me a name—I haven’t had a chance to tell Hotch yet—it’s Luke Alvez–” Penelope has her phone out instantly, Derek looking over her shoulder while she runs the name through her system. “And from what I’ve heard, he already has forgotten where he is, but his first instinct was to protect Spencer.”

“That makes sense; if he’s unsafe, Spencer would be too—he’d need to protect him,” Emily shrugs, watching the blonde type furiously. “He’ll prioritize the safety of an omega he’s bonded to over his own; Alvez would sooner remove himself from Spence’s nest before he could lay a hand on him.”

“Luke Alvez, born and raised in the Bronx, presented as an alpha at 16 and joined the army straight out of high school,” Penelope reads, skimming the information she’s dug up, finding yearbook photos and social media posts of a younger, care-free version of the alpha who’s face and body, now worn and weathered, flood her computers as evidence. “He went missing almost a year ago, and it looks like the local PD didn’t spend much time looking for him; a few months later, his family reported that their bond died, and officers dropped the case after that.”

“Army background—that’s probably how he survived so long—we know the unsub was making his victims fight and kill each other; he likely had the upper hand in any combat situation,” JJ’s words don’t do anything to calm her concerned packmates, the blonde basically confirming that their pack omega is sharing a nest with an alpha who killed to survive. “But like Em said, he won’t hurt Spence.”

“He won’t hurt an omega he’s bonded to ,” Derek corrects, eyebrows knit together with worry. “It’s been less than a day; they can’t bond that fast.”

“But his family bond died—he’s been alone for months —that would speed up the process of imprinting, at least.”

There’s something so profoundly heavy about someone isolated for so long that they begin bonding with the first person who helps them, willing to risk every ounce of safety they just obtained for a stranger, that weight hanging over the agents’ heads like a blade.

Luke is in the kitchen when Derek gets home, standing under the solitary lamp that hangs over the island, bathed in golden light in the otherwise dark house, wearing only an undershirt and a pair of boxers, his hair unkempt and stubble unshaven, sipping a cup of coffee in silence.

It’s strange how mundane the intimate scene has become since he moved in three months ago in a vain attempt to fill the gaps their partner’s absence left behind, the man Derek had only met a few times between their busy schedules now standing at his counter in the middle of the night, sharing the space where his life is imploding.

“Hey,” Derek sighs, dumping his bag by the door, the dull thump of its contents startling Roxy from her spot under the dining room table, her ears perking up as he regards her owner. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah,” Luke nods, his voice rough with unrest and exhaustion, tired eyes tracking the older man into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee, Roxy trailing behind him. “What happened there?”

The agent motions to Derek’s hand as he holds his mug, knuckles bruised with black and blue, the skin split open in some places.

“Lost my temper.” He shrugs, watching Luke set his cup down and cross the kitchen, lips pressed into a worried line as he finds the first-aid kit under the sink.

“Lemme see,” Derek sighs, knowing better than to argue after months of them dancing in vicious cycles and cleaning each other up, offering his hand to the brunette. “Any numbness?”

“No. It hurts to make a fist, though.”

“That will happen when you go around punching walls,” Luke shakes his head, rubbing gentle circles in Derek’s palm as he applies ointment to his split skin. “I doubt that’ll deter you from doing it again, but maybe wear a padded glove next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” The older man chuckles dryly, leaning over to kiss his company’s head as their fingers intertwine.

It takes Luke a second to react, initially leaning on Derek’s shoulder before pulling himself back to reality, clearing his throat while withdrawing his hand.

They originally moved in together to pick up the slack in each other’s lives that Spencer had to leave behind when he went to prison, filling the empty space, the two of them turning to each other as support to navigate what they’re going through—the trauma of their partner being wrongfully imprisoned. Their intentions were never romantic, but there’s something inherently intimate about existing in each others’ space during one of the worst times in their lives that pulls them together, drawn to each other like gravity.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

They sat down and talked about the possibilities of their budding feelings for each other as soon as they realized they were there, agreeing that they should wait until both of them could sit down with Spencer—when their partner is home and safe, regardless of how far in the future that might be—and possibly longer, depending on how prison takes its toll on him. 

“It’s okay. It helps; I just… I feel guilty about it.”

But they’re both physical people—they need touch—and barely being able to see their partner, never mind touch him– hold him is torture, which tends to blur the line between romantic and platonic on nights like these.

“Me too,” Derek sighs, gently squeezing Luke’s hovering hand. “It just feels wrong that we’re here, and Spence is… I don’t know. I feel like I shouldn’t get to be happy and keep living my life without him. You know?”

“Yeah, I get it,” The agent nods, running a thumb over the older man’s bruised knuckles. “But we’re doing everything we can to get him out of there, and Spence wouldn’t want us to put our lives on hold for him.”

Luke has never been afraid of heights.

When he was little, he’d climb fire escapes and the tallest trees he could find in the park. He’d hang out on top of monkey bars and the rooftops of his friends’ apartment buildings, walking on the ledges with unwavering confidence, the king of the world until it was time for dinner.

When he was little, heights meant freedom—far from whatever trivial problem troubled him that day—climbing away from an unforgiving world.

It’s almost three am on a starless night, a lifetime he never expected to see later when heights feel like freedom again, and they have for the past few weeks, but it’s more than that now; it’s escape.

He isn’t going to jump—or lean too far forward, because that’s all it would take as he sits on the bridge’s railing, his feet hanging over the edge—letting gravity finally get to him after decades of running from the irrefutable force, falling into the cold but welcome end in the water below.

“I’m not suicidal,” he repeats like a mantra, silently chanting the words he’s told countless doctors and psychologists in the past few months because he’s not.

It would be easy, too easy for him to kill himself here; the only person left in his life is his mother, and she doesn’t know he’s back in the States—he still had a few more months on his tour before his injury, so she wouldn’t notice until it’s too late—and he’s already been drifting from her, distance growing between them like the urge to let go blooming in his chest–Not that he’s thought about it, sitting in his empty apartment in silence, letting his mind wander down dark alleys he hasn’t explored since high school, imagining how easy it would be to kill himself because he hasn’t; Luke isn’t suicidal.

“Do you ever worry he ruined you?”

Derek pauses, food halfway to his mouth, lips parted as his company breaks their silence, soft brown eyes staring at him, searching for answers the former agent doesn’t have as they sit in the 24/7 Chinese restaurant a few blocks from his apartment.

“Yeah,” He says after a minute, lowering his chopsticks to return the younger man’s eye contact with a sincere nod. “When he– When Buford,”

“There’s power in saying their name; they can’t hurt you anymore. You won.”

“When he started losing interest in me, I felt… empty; I almost missed it—you know, feeling wanted, even if that want was fucked up—and that scared me. I thought I was dependent on him—that I needed him to feel okay again,” Derek takes a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “And when I went to college and started experimenting, I was afraid he made me gay, so I stopped sleeping with guys. I was terrified he made me something I wasn’t, but I’ve learned that I am who I am despite him, not because of him.”

“Do you feel like that anymore?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes, I can hear him talking to me or feel his hands on me, and it feels like a punch in the gut because I should be over it by now, and if I’m not, it means I never will; that all I am, and all I’ll be is that little boy, but that’s not true. There’s no timeline for healing; that doesn’t mean they ruined you.”

“Do you ever still miss it?”

“I don’t miss him or what he did to me, but the attention, yeah. It felt like I was his whole world—abusers will do that—and sometimes I want to feel like I’m someone’s everything again. That doesn’t mean I wanted or deserved it, though, and that applies to whatever you’re feeling, too.”

He’s silent for a few minutes, hand shaking as he reaches for his glass, finishing his water in a few anxious sips.

“I think I still miss her sometimes,” Luke admits, voice low and wavering, fidgeting with his fingers as he drops his gaze. “She was my best friend and my first girlfriend, and we– we had so many plans for our lives– our lives together; I wanted kids with her, and wanting kids now, it feels like a betrayal, almost.”