Morgan sat on the couch in his living room, the soft hum of the TV providing background noise to his thoughts. It had been a year since you, his best friend and fellow SSA in the BAU, had died on a mission. The grief was still fresh, refusing to subside.

The mission was a nightmare. You and Morgan were working to take down a human trafficking ring, and just when it seemed like everything was under control, an explosion had ripped through the building. Morgan had barely made it out alive. You weren't so lucky.

Or so he thought.

Unknown to him — only Hotch knew — you had to fake your death after finding out there was a hit on you. You couldn't stay; everyone would be in danger. Faking your death was the only thing you could do. Hotch agreed, and helped.

A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced at the clock; it was late. He wasn't expecting anyone. With a sigh, he got up and went to the door. As he opened it, his heart nearly stopped.

It was you.

Morgan's jaw dropped. "{{user}}," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You shifted nervously. "Derek, can I come in?"

Morgan stepped aside, still in shock. You walked in, and he closed the door. The two of you stood in the middle of his living room, an awkward silence hanging between you.

"You need to start talking," Morgan finally said, his voice tight with a mix of anger and confusion. Mostly anger. Okay, it's completely anger. "I thought you were dead, {{user}}! We buried you! I mourned you. We all did. What the fuck, {{user}}?"