What else is love but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts, and experiences otherwise than we do…?

Friedrich Nietzsche



I have a secret. A secret they will never truly understand.

They may be the greatest profiling minds in the world, but unless I tell them, they will never know. I may have given subtle hints – used specific words, done specific things – but unless I tell them, they will never know. And I won't tell.

I'm at a bar. Outside, it looks like any other bar. Neon lights, stoic bouncer. Just the right amount of seediness. Inside, it looks like any other bar. Booths, jukebox, noisy patrons. But the heart, the soul of the bar.

It's different.

I'm sitting alone in a booth. A few drink offers come my way. A few drunken propositions. I decline. I'm waiting. Thinking that this is the one place where I can be understood. The one place where nothing matters.

Morgan. Morgan wouldn't understand. He exudes such an easy confidence. Each potential lover is a conquest to him. He might smile, nod and give awkward encouragement, but he would never truly understand.

My mother taught me to hide my emotions. To be that perfectly behaved child, who would never scream, never cry. Her lessons had a greater impact, more devastating. I hide my true self. Locked away inside of me. Waiting to come out.

Rossi. Rossi wouldn't understand. He's like Morgan in a way, at times overcome with arrogance. Often stuck in the old ways, it would be strange to him.

As soon as I started college, my mother started setting me up with the most eligible bachelors. Not out of consideration for my own well-being, but to strengthen political relations. I think I disappointed her. I couldn't deny that there was definite chemistry – these were the top of the crop. Smart, handsome, successful. I'm not unfamiliar to intimate encounters. But my heart lay elsewhere.

Reid. Reid might understand. He has the same awkwardness. The same problem, yet a different problem altogether. He has his own secrets. I don't want to burden him.

The bar is changing shifts. Slowly transitioning from the drinks after to dinner crowd to the other crowd. The ones who have come for the action. The music changes. It's subtle, but my practised ear catches it. It's almost eight.

Garcia. Garcia would probably understand. And that was the problem. She would understand too well. She would make a big deal out of it. Loud encouragement. That's not something I want.

I don't want pats on the back, affirmations of loyalty. I want them to say, "Really? Okay" and then never speak of it again. But that won't happen.

JJ. JJ might understand. She had kept her own love secret for so long – for different reasons of course, but I found a strange sense of unrequited solidarity nonetheless. It wasn't the same.

Am I paranoid? Am I setting the bar too high? Probably. But then, I was taught to achieve perfection.

Hotch. Hotch might understand. Like me, he rarely wears his heart on the sleeve. But his experiences with love are limited. He can only see with the vision that his experience has granted him.

A drink is set on the table in front of me. I look up and meet hazel eyes, framed with soft spikes of ochre. Our lips meet, hers a soft velvet. My hand roams, brushing soft leather, cotton, and then finally, skin. No-one takes a second glance. Because that's the type of place this is.

It doesn't matter that she doesn't have a degree in Psychology. That she doesn't observe human behaviour for a living. Because she is the one person who will always truly understand me.

A/N: I thought this might be a nice change from the "I'm gay, guys. Come on JJ, let's go fuck in the supply closet," femmeslash fics.

Edit: For the best coming out story, go read the Half a Life story-arc from DC's Gotham Central. For Batman fans.

Edit2: Screw it. I'm making this a series.