"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." - Martin Luther King Jr.

When Morgan punches the wall of their hotel room, Reid wants to tell him to calm down, just to save his knuckles. Only he knows he has no right to ask that of Morgan, because he has simple no idea how Morgan feels right now. Three young black men are dead, lynched in woodland by what they've profiled as a mission-orientated partnership with a fatal racial motivation. There is media, and tension amongst the local police force, and Reid has never felt so useless.

He has facts, of course. He can recite for hours on the history of African slavery, of the Jim Crow era and of segregation. He can list statistics indicative of the continued marginalisation of ethnic minorities in their society today. But none of it, he knows, will make him understand how it feels to a black FBI agent bearing witness to these crimes.

He knows Morgan hasn't come back to the hotel voluntarily, he's been sternly instructed by Hotch. Reid does know exactly what it feels like to wish sleep wasn't required and keep on a case, but he also knows rest most often helps.

When Morgan punches the wall again he leaves a streak of blood on the beige paint and hisses.

"Derek." Reid says gently, unfolding his arms and padding across the room slowly. He reached out, making sure Morgan sees his motion so he can move away from the contact if he doesn't want it. Morgan is the only person in the world that he can conceive of walking towards when he is so riled up, because he knows him; he knows he is no threat. Morgan's shoulders relax just a little as Reid's long fingers wrap around his wrist, pulling his hand toward him. He inspects the damage, the middle knuckle sporting a bloody abrasion.

"Spencer, I'm..." he shrugs, unsure what there is to say.

"Talk to me." he prompts, gently massaging the man's hand in his fingers. Morgan inhales and exhales slowly through his nose, releasing the tension from his muscles.

"It's exhausting, sometimes." Morgan gives a hollow laugh. "Just knowing there are people in the world who think you're subhuman." He pauses, tilts his head a little like he's thinking. "Though I guess you do, since you're not straight."

"But I can hide that, if I need to." Reid continues for him, by way of explanation that he understands the point Morgan is making. "We're going to catch them."

"I know." He sighs, because these kinds almost always get caught. "But how many men is it gonna be too late for?"

Reid puts his head again Morgan's, smiling sadly and reaching out and touching his waist.

"You can't save everyone."

Morgan shuts his eyes – he knows it an echo of his own words, and he realises it doesn't make things better.

"How about-" Reid pauses, as if he's trying to figure out what to say. He doesn't say anything, so Morgan prompts him.

"How about what?"

"I was going to say something incredibly cliché that is probably not as romantic as I thought it might sound in the context of this conversation."

"Oh?" a gentle laugh. "C'mon. What were you going to say?"

"How about," he starts again, "you let me save you tonight?"

"Baby." Morgan lets out in a little whoosh of air again his mouth. "God, Spencer." And he's right, it is a little clichéd, but it makes his body sing for Reid's touch. He wraps his arms around Reid's back, and he can practically feel the tension leaving him, at least for a while, as Reid puts a kiss gently at the corner of his mouth. "C'mon then baby, save me."

"People hate as they love, unreasonably." - William Makepeace Thackeray