My Best Kept Secret

Summary: Morgan has kept a secret from Reid for the past 10 years. Inspired by the WA 10 year challenge. Morgan POV.

I watch him read at a leisurely pace. He does that sometimes, and it's a real treat to see him during those rare moments. He's not stressing through the pages at 20,000 words a minute, he's just taking the time to savor the story. He still reads two pages in the same time it would take for me to finish reading a quarter of one, but usually he will flip it before I have had time to read even one sentence.

He's sitting with his legs thrown over the arm of the chair and he continually leans closer to the book. I have to wonder how he manages to read anything at all at the short distance he currently has from his eyes to the book. When he leans in like that, he's on an exceptionally interesting section. I've learnt this after observing him time and time again from a distance. Always from a distance.

Ten years ago I had first noticed how my feelings for him had taken on a different character, and I had often observed him, trying to figure out what the particular feeling was. It had been completely foreign to me. And once I'd known what it was, I had tried to deny it.

I was, and am, broken. It took me the better part of two years to realize what was going on, and I had kept fighting the feeling for double that time. I tried to blame the feelings I had for Reid on my youth, on Buford, but I had quickly realized how unfair that was against Reid. But I still couldn't accept it, and I blamed Buford for corrupting me for life. I blamed him for my failure to be tolerant of my own feelings. I had never figured myself to be a homophobe, but then again, I had never figured myself to be bisexual either. I honestly have no issues with other people loving whomever they wish. I just couldn't allow myself to do the same. So I had tried to change it.

I never have any problems picking up girls at bars, or at the gym, but even after a night of pure pleasure, I am always left feeling dissatisfied, and guilty. I always feel as though I've been cheating, even though I have no one to cheat on. If I were to profile myself, I would say that in all reality, I was cheating on myself. I wanted someone else, something completely different from whomever I brought to bed with me. But still, I kept trying. I kept wishing that any of the girls could make these feelings go away. But I have never fallen in love with any of them. They are out of my life as quickly as they come in.

'Morgan?' He asks worriedly and I pull myself away from my thoughts. I realize that I've been staring at his face, and shift my eyes slightly to watch the book that he has now lowered onto his lap with his finger on the last line he read. He leans his head to the side and watches me, his gaze feeling as though it is trying to penetrate through every layer of protection and denial that I have covered myself with ever since I had figured myself out.

'I'm just amazed, kid.' I say with a smile, trying to ensure that he won't try to dig further, that he won't try to get under my skin. But he's already under my skin; he's so far under that it hurts.

'You have seen me read before.' He shrugs, watching me in confusion. That innocent confusion is one of the things I adore about him. With me, and the team, he's never afraid to show it, but around other people he'll try to stay back, and will ask me what someone was actually talking about.

'I have.' I finally agree. 'But not with your nose up your book quite like that.' He blushes faintly, and looks down at the book in his hands.

'It's interesting.' He mumbles, and I try to remember which books they have in the hotel's bookshelf that can possibly be labeled as interesting. But I have to admit I had not paid that much attention to the books when we arrived; I am generally not a reader.

'Which book is it anyways?' I ask, intrigued.

'It's nothing.' He says uncomfortably and flips it closed, but he keeps his hand over it, conveniently covering the title. I frown, wondering what would make him so uncomfortable around me. He is unlikely to read more today, which saddens me more than it should, but it means that I will not get another chance today to observe him quite as openly. When he reads around me, he is unguarded, and completely engrossed in his book. It tells me how much he trusts me, and it fills me with a pride that I have a hard time describing. He doesn't trust easily after all.

He's been bullied throughout his life. He is still being bullied at more than one precinct that we arrive at, though he never says a word about it. But he is always more withdrawn during those cases and I always notice how he seems to avoid being alone, without being overly obvious about it. We're all profilers however. We get it, and we try to protect him when it comes to that type of social interaction, but he doesn't appreciate that. That is also one of the things that impress me about him. He thinks that I think of him as a kid, as someone who can't take care of himself. But I am ridiculously impressed by him, and how he manages to get through every hardship that is thrown his way.

He has gone through lot more than just bullies. He's been close to dying at more than one occasion and every single time I have felt as though a part of me is trying to leave. The last time that he'd been frighteningly close to leaving me, he'd been shot in the neck, and I had had to leave him. I had pulled him to relative safety behind a car, and I'd had to leave him there. It had torn at me. I always had to leave him when he was close to dying. It had been the same when he had been exposed to anthrax. I had had to leave him to fight the worst part of it alone.

'Morgan?' He asks again, but now he's standing next to me. I look up at him from my place in the chair, and the compassionate smile that I see on his face takes my breath away. Pretty boy indeed.

He puts his hands in his pockets, but changes his mind and puts his hand on my shoulder, and squeezes it gently. I'm amazed, he rarely, if ever, initiates body contact. That part is usually completely left to the rest of us.

'I'm not going anywhere.' He says and removes his hand from me and puts it back in his pocket before he goes to the bathroom. I forget sometimes that he's a damned good profiler.

I really didn't want to leave him anymore. I wanted the freedom to observe him without him wondering if something was wrong. I wanted to be able to tell him what I felt. But even if I did, and he somehow reciprocated, I knew we could never have a normal relationship. Because I am broken. Because he deserves someone who knows what they want, and want him fully. Because he needs someone that can show him what a healthy relationship is. I am not the one that he needs.

But at least I'm not denying my feelings anymore; I am simply keeping them to myself. They wouldn't understand. My family, the team, Reid. They wouldn't understand if I told them. I'm not even sure that I understand it myself.

I love him, that part I do understand.

But I don't trust myself to not fall apart if ever we were to get together in a more intimate way. It wouldn't be fair to put that baggage on his shoulders. I know him. I have known him for eleven years. He's been my best friend for close to that. But I've loved him, completely and utterly loved him, for ten. So I know that, while he is strong, I could break him. I could break him so easily.

So I have never told anyone.

It is my guilty little secret.

Because I am already broken.

The spirit of a man can endure only so much and when it is broken only a miracle can mend it – John Burroughs

- yaruna