Work Text:
Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.
- Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient
I’m not sleeping because when I do I dream of Maeve. When I see her I feel the sweetest relief imaginable.
-
Spencer Reid
*
“Wake up,” she whispers in his ear.
Spencer wakes up to the feeling of a hand on his forehead. He opens his eyes slightly and squints at the brightness of the morning light illuminating his desk.
He props himself up on his elbows and rubs his eyes to get the last dregs of sleep out of them. “What are you doing?” he asks.
Maeve smiles, leans down to kiss his cheek. “Did I wake you?” she asks in reply.
Spencer fumbles around for his glasses for a few seconds before wiping them and putting them on. The view in front of him changes from a blurry contortion to Maeve’s hair, Maeve’s eyes, Maeve’s lips. “Not really,” he shrugs. “I don’t think I have ever woken up to anyone watching me sleep before, that’s all.”
Maeve thinks for a moment, absently touching the tip of her nose while she does. It makes him want to kiss the tip of her nose and fall back into bed with her. “I’m sorry,” she laughs. “You were already asleep when I got back last night and I wanted you to wake up to something nice.”
Spencer ducks his head downwards to hide his face but Maeve is faster. “I know you’re smiling,” she says, tipping his chin up with one of her fingers. “I know the way your muscles twitch.”
“It’s a little stalkerish,” he says, hopes his words will find a way to hide the grin threatening to explode around his teeth.
Maeve just looks. “It’s also very nice,” he amends and this time around, doesn't attempt to hide his smile when she leans forward and ruffles his hair. He knows it’s going to tangle and stick up on all sides, knows he has to spend a while smoothening it out before he can get to work, but he would gladly let her shave his head if it means he can continue to feel that bubbling warmth in his chest.
“I’m glad you think so,” Maeve strokes the sharp angles of his face with her fingers.
“I should go to work,” he finally says, even as he pushes his blanket aside and swings his feet to the floor. Behind him, Maeve makes a vague noise at the back of her throat.
“Will you be okay?” he stands and ties the sash of his dressing-gown tighter around himself.
Maeve throws a cushion at him. “Yeah, don’t worry, go and help save the world. The criminals await.” Spencer throws the cushion back at her and she half-ducks under the blanket. “I think I’m going to catch up on sleep, if that’s alright?”
Spencer nods. “Will you be here when I get back?”
Maeve pulls the blanket off her face. Even at this angle, he can tell she’s smiling because of the way her face shifts. She touches her lips with her fingers and blows him a kiss before ducking back into the warmth of the recently abandoned blanket.
“Always,” she replies.
*
“It’s your fourth coffee of the morning,” Morgan observes as he opens the fridge in the break-room to retrieve an apple.
Reid pours another packet of sugar into his mug. “So?”
Morgan lifts his hand slightly in a surrendering gesture. “There's no need to be defensive, Reid,” he says quickly. “I’m just pointing out that it’s your fourth cup and it’s not even eleven yet.” He steps closer to Reid and scans his face carefully. “Are you alright?”
Reid swallows a sip of his coffee and dissolves his smile in the sweetness of the drink. “I just woke up really early, is all.”
Morgan sighs and his eyes soften. He’s looking at Reid with a strange mixture of pity and sternness that makes something within his chest ache. Reid looks away and tries not to cringe, even as he has no idea why.
“Reid,” Morgan breathes.
“I’ve got to get back to work, Morgan,” he sighs too, and feels the high from his nervous energy drain through the tips of his fingers. He tries to leave but Morgan is faster, he reach forwards and grip Reid’s wrist firmly.
Reid looks down to where Morgan’s fingers have curled around his bones and catches a glimpse of the dial of Morgan’s watch. He’s already wasted ten minutes on this conversation, he realizes, and mentally tries to calculate how long it will take for him to finish off the files before he can get home. He hopes he can manage to reach early enough to wake Maeve up, even though he knows he would need a substantial miracle for that to happen at this point. He closes his eyes briefly and takes a deep breath before yanking his hand off.
“We need to talk about this, Reid,” Morgan is still all over in his space, breathing the same air and looking at him, begging, pleading.
Reid frowns and tries to think back to what Morgan might want to talk about. The last time he had talked to Morgan about anything demanding this level of intensity had been on the plane when Morgan had alluded to –
Oh.
Reid rubs at his eyes and suddenly feels a surge of impatience.
“What is there to talk about?” Reid murmurs and makes his way back to his desk without looking back.
*
When he gets back, Maeve is in the kitchen chopping onions.
“My sweatshirt looks good on you,” he remarks as he dumps the key on his coffee table. He glances around his living room, only to find his bookshelves empty and most of his books on the floor. He bends down to pick the nearest one and examines it; quite a few pages have folded inwards and the spine is bent due to the impact when it had crashed to the floor.
“What happened?” he asks her, wide-eyed in dismay.
Maeve continues her work on the chopping-board. Her knife makes a rhythmic, soothing sound of metal hitting wood at regular, specific intervals. She doesn't even glance up to ascertain the mess, he notices vaguely.
“It was like that when I came back yesterday,” she shrugs and puts the chopped pieces of onion into the pan.
Spencer stares. “Why would anyone make a mess of my books? And didn’t it occur to you to pick a few of them up?”
Maeve grins sheepishly. “I thought you had done it yourself. You were telling me about your philosophy of science paper. I thought you had decided to focus on thermodynamics.”
Spencer rubs his eyes furiously with the back of his hand. “I wouldn't do it like this,” he exclaims, not caring about the shrill note in his voice. “This looks like it has been motivated by extreme anger.”
Maeve studies the books strewn all over the floor before brightening up. “We can clean them later,” she promises and holds up the pan. “I made us eggs and waffles.”
Spencer raises an eyebrow. “For lunch?” he asks skeptically.
Maeve gives him another look. “It’s better than Rice Krispies for dinner,” she replies pointedly and puts out two plates on the kitchen counters.
Spencer smiles bashfully and yet again, takes in the sheer amount of books strewn everywhere. Across the room, he watches Maeve lay out cutlery and glasses for the both of them on the table.
“There are thousands of words between me and you,” he jokes, gestures around him.
Maeve looks up at him suddenly, and for a moment, he revels in the way her eyes fold and her nose crinkles just the millisecond before she’s about to actually smile.
“You’ll find a way,” she assures him.
*
“I’m glad you’re able to work,” Hotch tells him in the car on their way back from a custodial interview.
Reid turns to face him, surprised. “Why wouldn't I be able to?”
Hotch shifts uncomfortably in his seat and looks straight ahead. “When Haley died,” he begins unsteadily and grips the steering wheel tighter, “I didn’t know how to function. I didn’t know how I would ever be able to-”
He cuts himself when he catches Reid smiling at him. “What?” he asks instead.
Reid shakes his head. “What is it about prison that makes you so chatty afterwards?” he asks with a laugh in his voice. He hopes that Hotch would smile back at him but he doesn't.
“Reid,” he sighs instead.
Reid looks away. “There is nothing wrong with me,” he mutters finally, speaking more to the window than to the man next to him.
Hotch maneuvers the wheel with his left hand and reaches out to touch Reid on the shoulder with his right. “No one’s saying there is,” he says in a soothing tone. Reid jerks back.
“Can you please just get me home?” he asks after a few minutes of silence.
“Sure,” Hotch replies, looking sideways at the shadows cast by the sundown on Reid’s face. “Anything important?” he asks casually.
Reid pushes a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “No, it’s just, ah, Maeve is – she’ll be waiting,” he replies with a hint of smile on his lips. The smile turns to a frown in seconds when he catches the frozen look on Hotch’s face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. Hotch tears his eyes off the road in front of him and he registers, with growing amount of shock, the expression on Hotch’s face. The last time he had looked like that had been a long time ago and they had entered, guns at the ready, to find Hotch kneeling on the floor over a dead man with blood on his hands and tears in his eyes –
Oh.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly, because Hotch has gone from normal to devastated in a minute, wearing heartbreak in every wrinkle on his face. “I’m sorry I wasn't paying attention when you were talking before,” he begins to apologize.
Hotch takes a deep, shaking breath and Reid frowns, doesn't understand what’s gone wrong, doesn't understand how he’s managed to cause Hotch pain in a matter of minutes.
He feels some of the devastation creep into his own body. “I’m sorry,” he says heavily, tries to rest his head on the back of the seat. Except Hotch is looking at him like he’s just said the saddest thing in the world, looking at him like he’s going to shatter in million pieces and he wants to scream, wants to say I don’t understand or don’t worry, I’m happy, wants to stop Hotch from looking like that.
“I’m fine, Hotch,” he says softly, waits for Hotch’s expression to change.
It doesn’t work. Hotch looks like he’s about to cry and he doesn’t understand.
*
“What?” Maeve covers herself up with a sheet and props up on one elbow on the bed.
Spencer continues to etch numbers into her bare arm. “Nothing,” he says in a small voice.
She catches his hand softly. “Something’s wrong,” she states, a bit of firmness creeping into her voice. “Your heart-rate suddenly spiked. I was listening.” Spencer sighs. He wraps an arm around her and she falls back on his chest.
“Sometimes,” he says finally, “I feel like you are one.”
Maeve shifts and pats him lightly on the cheek. “I believe the expression is the one,” she teases.
Spencer doesn’t laugh. “No, I mean, I feel like you’re one. As in, one, the number.”
Maeve frowns. She stretches her arms and sits up on the bed, cross-legged. “Because I’m the smallest positive real number?” she asks.
That earns her a sideways smile from Spencer. He sits up to face her too, and tucks his feet underneath him. “Did you know,” he begins lightly, taking one of her hands into his, “that the equation that one is equal to 0.99 with an infinite repetition of the decimal places is one of the most discussed equalities amongst math academics?”
She raises her eyebrows. “A lot of people believe that an infinite repetition of 0.999,” he clarifies, “can never intersect with one on the number line, although it approaches the closest. There are, of course, simple proofs that can establish that 0.999 repeated infinitely is, in fact, one, but it scares me a little that when you draw a picture, it can never intersect with one.”
Maeve listens. “And what does this have to do with me?” she asks.
Spencer sighs. “I feel like,” he clenches and unclenches his hand. “I sometimes feel like you’re unattainable. That you are one, and even infinite efforts on my part will never get me fully to you.”
He looks up from his hands when she doesn’t reply to find her staring at him. He opens his mouth to ask something else except the next moment, she lunges forward and hugs him as tightly as her arms would allow and he melts into it, relishes the feeling of being dissolved yet protected within a sphere of affection.
When she pulls back, he catches her hastily wiping a tear from her eye. In the back of his mind, he wonders what he’s done to make a myriad of people cry recently. Then she kisses him and he forgets all about coherent thought.
Her lips taste like coffee and chapstick and they’re warm in all the right places, and he closes his eyes and tries to frantically remember every line indented on her lips, every heave of her shoulder when her mouth is on his, even though he knows, technically, that he will never be able to forget anyway.
“You’re wrong, you know,” she murmurs between kisses. “I’m not one. We are one.”
Reid smiles into her hair. “That’s not mathematically accurate,” he begins to say, but she silences him by trailing kisses on his neck.
“I don’t care,” she murmurs. “I’ll make up new axioms, if that means I can prove it to you.”
*
“Hey,” Blake seats herself across from him on the jet. He spares a cursory glance at her, bracing himself for her line of questions and looking out at the clouds. He feels restless and thirsty all at the same time, taps his fingers on his hand-rest repeatedly solely to concentrate on the motion it’s producing.
“I’m concerned about you, Reid,” Blake repeats. He looks away, feels the last of his patience wear off as the itching in his arms continues to increase. He closes his eyes and wishes that Maeve were beside him, that she would curl her hand around his wrist and ground him. He clenches his hands into fists and wishes for the weight of her presence next to him, wishes that they would calm his heartbeat.
“Can we not talk about this?” he spits out.
Blake draws back a little but Reid has no interest in looking at her reaction. He thumbs through the case-file yet again and grits his teeth against the hope that the case will be short and that he will be back with her soon.
Reid takes another sip of his coffee. And another.
The itching in his arms and the ache behind his eyes intensify. He doesn't understand, doesn't comprehend the feeling of unrest growing all over him. Abruptly, there is the nothing in the world he wants more than to shoot up and feel the haze of forgetfulness surrounding him. He doesn’t understand why he’s craving even as he does; he hasn’t felt like this since before their letters started, hasn’t felt it since the day he’d come back home from a case to find a letter waiting for him and it had been from her and –
Oh.
He fumbles for his phone and calls her number. It keeps ringing without an answer.
He throws his phone back on the bed and drinks more coffee.
He doesn’t understand. Her phone keeps ringing.
*
“What? What’s wrong?” Maeve shouts out, a frantic tone creeping into her voice as Spencer gasps and sits up on the bed, tries to calm the erratic beating of his heart.
“Nothing,” he replies harshly, and clears his throat to get his breathing under control. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Maeve sits up instead, leans in to lay her head on his chest and remains silent, listening as his heartbeat gradually steadies itself.
“Nightmare?” she murmurs.
He nods over her head. “I dreamt that you were dead,” his voice shakes as he speaks, as if he’s afraid that saying the words out loud would cause it to happen.
She remains silent. “I dreamt that you had somehow gotten involved with an unsub. I was forced to watch you die.” He presses on her shoulder, silently urging her to turn around. She complies.
“I was forced to watch you get shot and I couldn't do a thing about it,” he says desperately, and cups her face in his hand, willing her to understand.
“I’m not going anywhere, Spencer,” she speaks into his chest, and he closes his eyes against the vibrations of her words.
He cups her face and pulls her closer. “I don’t know what I would do if something happened to you. I don’t know how I would cope.”
Maeve leans in and kisses the trail of each tear running down from the corner of his eyes. “You will never have to find out,” she promises fiercely. Spencer looks away but doesn’t release his grip on her.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he forces back a sob rising within him.
Instead of replying, she kisses his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his cheeks. She lets him feel her breath against his, the warmth of her skin against his, the beating of her heart against his.
Slowly, she lays him down and covers the blanket over the both of them. “We have forever,” she murmurs into his ear, into his skin and smooths his hair out. Lightly, she trails her fingers over his face until she can feel his goosebumps and his eyes close back of their own accord.
She stays right there, watching his face basked in the glow of the dim light of the bedside table, watching the light and the darkness illuminate and fluctuate over his contours and angles as he moves minutely. She can still see the remnants of tear tracks on his face but in this light, in this peace he looks calm, invincible, like the world still hasn't been able to break him.
He looks beautiful.
Suddenly, she wants to take away, engulf and keep for herself all the pain lodged into the hunch of his shoulders, the bags under his eyes and the ridges of his elbows.
“Sleep,” Maeve whispers in his ear. “Sleep and we're going to fall in love.”
*