Chapter Text
“In violence we forget who we are.” - Mary McCarthy
The first time Morgan came into the bullpen with a bruise under his eye, Emily asked if a woman had punched him, and even Hotch had smiled. He pretended to look hurt, putting his hand on his heart.
“I got this saving kittens from a burning building!” he said, and Rossi clapped him on the shoulder. Reid looked up from his desk, studying the mark on Morgan’s face. It was dark purple and sore-looking, around two inches long curving under and around the side of his eye.
“He got bested in Judo,” Garcia informed, bustling through the bullpen towards her office.
“Hey!” Morgan called out after her. “Why you being a snitch, sexy momma?”
“Sorry, honey!” she called over her shoulder, not sounding sorry at all.
Morgan looked around, catching Reid’s eye and grinning at him. Reid returned a smile, trying to drag his eyes away from the mark on his friend’s face. He did not need something else about Morgan that was distracting, did not need to feel that small ache in his chest making him want to reach out and sooth the bruise.
The second time Morgan sported a bruise was almost two months later. It was bigger this time, and definitely considered a black eye. Reid watched him wince in discomfort as he stretched out his face on the plane back from a case.
“You’re six-foot-something,” Emily said, considering him. “How do you manage to get kicked in the face?”
“By sparring with someone who’s a much better fighter than you are, even if they're a foot shorter,” Morgan conceded on a sigh. “I’m a black belt twice, he’s training for his fifth.”
“Wow.”
Reid wondered why it was that Morgan was receiving so many consistent injuries in Judo, when it had been a long running hobby of his.
“Well, women like a bit of a beat up guy,” Morgan said confidently, “gives them something to take care of.”
“Ugh.” Emily pulled a face, and Morgan grinned guiltily. “Maybe the women you’re into.”
Reid quickly went back to concentrating on his coffee.
The third time, the bruises weren’t on his face.
Five weeks after the last occurrence, Spencer had noticed when Morgan came to work in a shirt and tie. It had been a long time since he had, even though it was casual and he carried it with such confidence that everyone was commenting on his return to such suave wardrobe choices.
It wasn’t until Morgan hadn’t rolled up his sleeves when he was interrogating a suspect that Reid started to feel weird about the clothing choice. Maybe he was projecting, but he very keenly remembered making similar ones when he was injecting himself with drugs to hide the evidence of his struggle.
He saw the bruises in the bathroom when Morgan was washing his hands. His sleeved had inched up to reveal deep red and purple bruising around his wrists, and Morgan had caught him looking. He’d quickly flicked his shirt down to cover them, and met Reid’s eyes defiantly, as if daring him to ask. Reid swallowed.
“Morgan...”
“Handcuffs,” Morgan said quickly.
“What?”
“A girl I went home with. I told her I used to be a cop, and she got carried away.”
“Oh.”
“She had her own cuffs, dude, she was intense,” he laughed.
“Right,” Reid nodded. Morgan tugged at his sleeves again as he passed Reid, heading to leave.
The explanation didn’t fit for Reid. Morgan was an alpha, a dominant personality, and he was strong; he couldn’t envision a situation in which he’d be convinced into submitting long enough to be restrained in handcuffs. He considered whether the marks could be from ropes, wondering if perhaps the man was engaging in consensual BDSM activity; but again, Morgan profiled as dominant, it made little sense for him to be sporting bruises from wrist restraints. He could be wrong, of course.
Reid left the bathroom feeling a slight writhing in his stomach.
It was just a week later when Morgan showed up for work with a split lip, a bruised cheek and abrasions on several of his knuckles. Morgan flopped down at his desk opposite Reid’s, having just returned from Hotch wanting to talk to him in his office.
“He asked me if I’m getting into fights,” Morgan sighed.
“Are you?” Reid asked.
“What? No.” He pulled a face. “I’m getting humiliated at Judo,” he said. “I’m losing my touch, kid.”
“Maybe you should take a break from Judo,” he said, worrying the inside of his lip with his teeth.
“Eh,” Morgan waved his hand dismissively, “I’ll get back in stride soon.”
The next week, when Reid walked into the locker room to find Morgan pulling on a clean t-shirt, he saw the bruises on his torso. They weren’t slight discolouration; they were angry black and blue marks, and they were huge, all over his back and ribs. He must have been staring because Morgan looked startled when he realised Reid was in the room, and hurried out without saying anything to him.
Those bruises could not have been from Judo. Their placement made it clear that Morgan had been kicked and punched while he was on the floor, and that did not happen in Judo. Even if Morgan was fighting – Reid had considered him attending an underground fight club – hitting an opponent who who was already grounded long enough to leave those kind of marks was general considered cowardice.
As he parked up his old car in front of Morgan’s home, he hoped he was doing the right thing. Morgan answered the door, looking surprised at his visitor.
“Hey Reid. You okay?”
“Can I come in?” Reid asked, eyeing the boxer dog trying excitedly to get past Morgan’s leg.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Back, Clooney,” he ordered, pushing the dog out of the way. It didn’t work for long, and soon Clooney was jumping up at Reid, attempting to lick his face. Reid knew the drill and placated him with affection, enough to get him to stop fussing.
“”What’s up, Reid?” Morgan asked. “You want a coffee?”
“Sure.” He smiled.
He followed him through to the kitchen, Clooney pushing at his leg and trying to get more affection. He watched Morgan preparing coffee, raking his eyes up and down his form.
“Is someone hitting you?” he asked suddenly, unable to formulate a plan to drop the question into coffee chatter.
“Excuse me?” Morgan frowned.
“You didn’t get those bruises from Judo,” Spencer said non-confrontationally.
“It’s none of your business,” Morgan snapped.
“I know, but I’m worried about you, man. Your explanation and your injuries don’t match, and if-”
“You need to leave.” Morgan’s face was stony.
“Morgan, please, I’m just trying to understand.”
“You don’t need to understand,” Morgan cut. “It’s none of your damn business. I want you to leave, Reid.”
“Okay, okay.”
Reid held up his hands in front of him in surrender. He backed up, heading for the door. Morgan followed, trying to shut it behind him. Reid wedged himself in the half-shut door, turning back to Morgan one last time.
“Morgan, you know I’m your friend, right?” he said. “If you need to talk, about anything, you know I’ll be there.”
“Goodbye, Reid,” Morgan said pointedly, and Reid moved, biting back a protest as Morgan slammed the door behind him.
---
It had been so good, until it wasn't.
It nearly always started when Morgan least expected it, and over something so small, the violence way out of proportion, if it was even reasonable to consider any amount of violence proportional.
They were watching basketball on the TV, and Morgan had refused to change the channel.
Morgan coughed and reeled from the punch to the gut, winded and unable – unwilling, in truth – to fight back, leaving him pliable for the other to climb onto him, pinning his legs with strong knees, tightening his grip on his neck and raining more punches against his ribs and stomach.
“James!” he choked out, struggling under the other’s weight. One hand flew to the hand on his neck to try to loosen the hold that threatened to strangle him, while the other attempted to defend his middle from blows. “Stop, James!”
“Shut the fuck up!” James snarled, the skin of his face turning a blotchy, angry red, his dark eyes wide with fury.
The first time he’d been hit, Morgan had fought back, shocked by the sudden violence. It'd ended with James’ foot between Morgan’s shoulder blades, pressing him down into the floor and telling him to apologize for refusing to put out the trash.
Morgan had, and had felt like a child for doing it. He knew he should have walked away from the relationship, the first real relationship he’d ever had, but he hadn’t. He’d told himself it wouldn’t happen again, and reminded himself how lucky he was that James wanted him at all, that James had finally given him what he wanted.
He’d wanted to be able to stop pretending he was straight, he’d wanted to stop having to be the person in control. He’d wanted to move on from the person he knew he was never going to be able to give up control to. He hadn’t wanted to lead; couldn’t. He was terrified of what he was capable of if someone offered that kind of power to him. James had been dazzling; strong, charming, his equal. His better. He’d wanted Morgan, known instinctively he needed someone else to take the lead.
Morgan had rationalised that it wasn’t intimate partner violence, at least not the conventional sense. James wasn’t like a typical abuser; he didn’t cycle through abuse and remorse. He never apologized for striking out; instead he justified it. Morgan couldn’t even remember when he’d started believing him when he’d told him he needed to be hurt, that he deserved it because he was a coward faking his way through life as a playa, a pathetic man too scared to face the world’s judgement that he was still pretending to sleep with women when in reality he was submitting his body to a man, and enjoying it.
Morgan had realised it was true, that he was petrified of the judgement. Taking the violence had become considerable easier then, because he’d realised he deserved it; if he was too pathetic to be his true self, he deserved everything he got.
He’d tried to end their relationship once. Morgan wasn't stupid, he knew what was going on, and that his mind was slowly being warped by what was happening, that it was changing the fundamental way his brain functioned to try and help him survive.
But James had shown him the collection of photographs he’d taken discreetly in some of their most intimate moments; they were photos of Morgan at his most vulnerable, wanton, submissive. He knew he couldn’t walk away, even in the moments when he doubted everything he’d been told by Buford that was echoed by James, that he wanted it and he deserved it and they were just giving him what he needed. If the people he threatened to show the photos to knew what Morgan was, what he’d done, it would ruin his life. He knew James owned him.
“I’m sorry!” Morgan gasped out, holding his hands out in submission. “I’m sorry!” He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for, but it didn’t matter any more. James stopped, throwing Morgan back roughly.
“It’s your fault,” James barked without looking at him, and Morgan knew better than to counter him. “If you didn’t piss me off I wouldn’t have to put you in your fucking place. Now,” he went on, dropping a hand to palm at the front of his jeans, “apologize properly.”
Morgan felt his lip tremble, but he fought back the emotion. He’d once done that willingly, even enjoyed it. Sex with a man that didn’t hurt like it had with his abuser as a teenager was part of how James had captured him, made him dependent. Now whether he got to enjoy it was entirely at the whim of his handsome, charming, cruel boyfriend.
He knew it would be worse if he refused; James would get so angry he’d go for the face, and then Morgan would have to explain to his team how he’d got hurt. The thought of them finding out what he was, what he was doing, what he was letting happen to him terrified him. He slipped off the couch and onto his knees between the other man’s legs.
---
“His name is James.”
Spencer opened his eyes in the darkness of the hotel room he was sharing with his team mate on a case.
“Who?” he said, trying not to sound too sleepy as his brain tried to work out the significance of Morgan’s words.
“My boyfriend.”
“Oh.” Reid’s guts writhed with this information; Morgan was with a man. Morgan wasn’t straight. There was a little more than the zero percent chance Reid had thought there was that his feelings might be reciprocated, and now the other was with a man who was hurting him.
Reid turned over, facing towards the other bed. Through the darkness he could see Morgan lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He’d changed after the lights went out, most likely to stop Reid from seeing his bruises again.
“He hurts you,” Reid stated quietly. He couldn’t fathom what kind of man James had to be to be able to keep hurting Morgan, for Morgan not to leave. He found it difficult to believe Morgan could be anything but assertive in a relationship.
“It’s not like that,” Morgan said. Reid didn’t believe him.
“Then what is it like?”
“It’s fine,” Morgan said into the dark. “It’s alright.”
“Are you saying him injuring you is consensual?”
“Yeah,” Morgan said quickly. Reid instantly regretted asking, giving Morgan an easy explanation instead of pushing him to explain it without prompting.
“Why are you telling me, Morgan?” He asked gently.
“I don’t know. I trust you. You can’t tell anyone.”
“Morgan—”
“You can’t, Reid, you’ve got no right. I can do my job, I’m fine, my personal life isn’t anyone else’s business.”
Reid wondered why his friend had told him at all if he wasn’t going to be allowed to do something – anything to stop it, but he didn’t say anything. He might not be the most socially talented man, but he knew this was delicate.
Morgan trusted him with this admission, and as much as it reminded him of when he’d known there was something wrong with Elle so many years ago and hadn’t told anyone, he knew this was so much more complicated. Telling someone about Elle’s behaviour might have stopped her actions, but he wasn’t sure that telling someone about what he suspected was going on with Morgan would help.
“Are you happy?” Reid asked, not sure what else he could say. He wanted Morgan to tell him everything, wanted to know if it was as bad as the bruises looked. Morgan didn’t answer for a long time.
“I’m going to sleep now.”
To Reid that was a resounding no. If there was any other answer, Morgan would have said. He didn’t completely understand Morgan’s apparent inability to lie to him; they were friends, of course, but Morgan kept his emotions closely guarded. This sharing was out of character, which made it even more worrying to Reid as he settled and tried to let himself sleep.
---
As Morgan lay panting on James’ bed, naked and aching and trying to steady his breathing while he listened to the shower running, his mind whirred.
The first time Carl Buford had taken him to the cabin, he had told him letting a man do that to his body was the ultimate expression of how much you cared about him. Morgan had cared about Buford; he had given him so much, helped him, he was almost fatherly to him.
The first time he’d had sex with James, he’d been slightly tipsy but eager, consenting. James was sure and experienced, and while it hadn’t been comfortable it was nothing like his first experience, overall he’d enjoyed it, and James had been attentive to Morgan’s need afterward, bringing him off with his hand.
When Morgan had worked up the courage to go to a gay club, James had been the first man to treat him in a way that didn’t make him incredibly uncomfortable. It was strange really; the conduct of previous men wasn’t any different to how he knew he had acted towards women: forward, flirty, clear that sex was the only question. He knew it was hypocritical for that behaviour in men towards him to make his skin crawl, but it still did.
On the third time Morgan had tried attending a gay bar, the time when he was considering giving up on the whole thing, he’d met James. He was attractive; mixed race, dark eyes and coffee-coloured skin, short cropped hair and clean shaven, taller than Morgan, leaner, but very muscular. He’d been intense and charming, perceptive and able to read Morgan easily. They’d ended up going for a drink, and a week later going to see a football game together, and soon after the relationship had developed sexually behind closed doors.
James wasn’t really into public displays outside of gay clubs, and Morgan had found himself wanting, but the caution was understandable. It was still fun, and he still felt giddy every time his phone buzzed with a message from James.
It had been so good, until it wasn't.
They'd been together three months, the first time James lashed out. Morgan had spent the whole weekend at James’ apartment for the first time. As he'd nursed the bruise that would blossom on his face, he’d thought then about leaving; but the idea of letting go of what he’d wanted since he could remember, being fulfilled in a way he never had with women, and going back to the intimidating scene of down-low and shame scared him.
So he’d pushed away every instinct he had that told him James was dangerous, and he was foolish to stay when he could just leave, because leaving meant solitude and Morgan wasn’t sure how long it would be before solitude meant death.
The first time sex had been bad had been after Morgan had missed a pre-planned date with James because of work. He’d made him feel guilty for it, talked him into undressing. He’d plied him with kisses that were prized like jewels to Morgan, told he could make it all better if he had sex with him. Morgan had changed his mind halfway through, and James hadn't cared.
It was inevitably bad, now. A joyless coupling for Morgan, while James used his body, having decided Morgan didn’t deserve any attentiveness. James would probably deny him the chance to shower, leaving Morgan pained and uncomfortable all night.
James was the only person in his life that Morgan did not profile; profiling him would make it impossible to justify why he stayed. James controlled him, and that was what he needed, because he knew he would be dangerous if he wasn’t controlled.
He would rather be hurt than be alone.
“Violence can only be concealed by a lie, and the lie can only be maintained by violence.” - Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn