October 14th, 2012
Spencer stepped out of his warm Volvo—a magnolia folder with copies of the current case files tucked under his left arm—into the crisp autumn air. The wind mussed his wavy locks as he strode towards the entrance of Capital Plaza Apartments. His keys were jingling in his dominant right hand between his steps along the asphalt.
As he walked through the front doors of the building, he noticed an unfamiliar girl in her mid-twenties discussing with Lucas, the older gentleman that worked the front desk. She was naturally tall—her faded black sneakers didn't add any extra height to her, leaving him to assume she was around five-seven or five-eight—with a thin, slightly athletic frame. Her jeans were also faded from age, a light blue color with a few old, over-washed paint stains splattered on them as the frayed bottoms pooled over her shoes. She wore a grey V-neck shirt under her thin, purple zip-up hoody—the sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. Two necklaces hung from around her thin neck: a silver pentacle on a black string hovering at the dip of her prominent collarbone, and a teardrop-shaped, light cobalt blue gem on a thin, silver chain resting low against her sternum, near the neckline of her shirt. She had soft features, high cheekbones, and light freckles dotting across the bridge of her nose. Her chocolaty brown hair was pulled back into a black hair clip, only a few loose strands curved around her face.
He spared her another glance before making his way towards the wall lined with metallic mailboxes for the residents. He unlocked his designated mailbox, which was labeled with only his apartment number, and pulled out the envelopes. His eyes quickly skimmed over the senders as he shuffled through them until he found a specific name in beautiful familiar handwriting:
Maeve Donovan.
He felt his lips pull upwards in a smile at the mere sight of her name alone. His heart swelled fondly, and he could feel a sudden warmth wash over his cheeks.
Spencer quickly turned to walk towards the stairwell.
Thud.
"Y'ouch!" the high feminine voice yowled as he let out an audible "Oof!" and his mail spilled out of his hands. His dark eyes went wide as he saw the girl from a moment ago on the floor.
Her face was scrunched in pain as she rubbed her lower back. The box that had been sitting at her feet as she talked to Lucas was now tipped on its side next to her – it had vomited numerous novels onto the linoleum floor. His mail had fluttered around her, causing a whirlpool of paper to surround her.
"Oh, my God!" he cried out, dropping to one knee in front her. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
She waved her hand at him nonchalantly, "I'm okay, just my butt hurts. I don't have much cushioning there." A laugh escaped her pink lips before she settled a soft smile there. Her lifted her head to meet his gaze, and he felt himself freeze at the sight of her icy blue eyes. "Thank you, though. I'm sorry for bumping into you like that."
"I-It's quite alright," he cursed himself for stammering. He blamed the growing flush in his cheeks on his embarrassment for not seeing her in time. "I'm m-more worried about you, miss. That was quite a fall."
"Miss?" she giggled and held her hand out to him. Her voice staggered like a see-saw between northern and southern accents; it slipped off her tongue without conscious thought. "My name's Sam, hon."
"Actually," he physically leaned away from her outstretched hand, "due to the staggering number of pathogens passed during a handshake, it's safer to kiss."
She blinked at him, eyes widened partially as she processed his words. Her pupils shrank as the light reflected against them. He started to mentally scold himself for his factual rambling until her lips curled into a devious smile; a chill ran down his spine, "Was that an invitation?"
He felt his jaw drop at her comment, and his own eyes grew owlishly wide. His face went aflame as he shook his head rapidly, "No, no, no! It was just a bit of a fun fact, and besides, I'm … I'm…"
He trailed off.
What was he? Was he taken? Were he and Maeve in a committed relationship?
He thought so, but he didn't know how she would react if he declared being hers romantically—especially since they had yet to even see one another. It wasn't that he didn't like the idea of it, and he was only hiding his relationship with her for her safety – not to mention to prevent teasing from his team… Even so—
His thoughts were cut short by the sound of Sam's laughter. He blinked and shook his thoughts away, staring as her in puzzlement.
"Sweetie, relax," she grinned – a friendly feature, not flirtatious. "I was only jesting with ya', anyway. You're cute and all, but my heart's taken already. And by the look of this letter," she playfully waved a white envelope in front of him, "so are you."
He snatched it from her fingers and held Maeve's letter close to his chest, earning a surprised look on the brunette's face. He turned his head away slightly, "S-Sorry, but it's a very private matter."
Her blue eyes softened, "You need to chill out a bit, hon. I wasn't going to read it. I'm your neighbor, not some psychotic girlfriend." Her shoulders bobbed with laughter again.
When he looked at her again, she had a smile back on her face as she tipped the box upright again. He quietly helped her gather her books and place them back into the cardboard containment.
"Thank you," his lips tilted upwards from her contagious smile as she handed him the rest of his fallen mail, which was mostly bills and junk.
"Thank you," she shot back, hugging the box against her stomach. Her smile was contagious, causing the corners of his lips to pull into an awkward smile of his own. "I appreciate the help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some more unloading to do before I can settle in for the night. I'll catch you around later, Dr. Reid." She winked at him before turning away to head up the flight of stairs.
"How'd you know my name?" he frowned, then the moment of realization hit him. She probably saw it off the letters.
"It's on your mail, genius," she verbally echoed his thoughts, not bothering to turn back and look at him. Her head shook a bit from side to side, causing her hair to swish behind her.
He checked his watch to find that it already going on four o'clock. A frown formed on his face. If she's doing all this unloading by herself, depending on how much she has, she could be doing this all evening…
He called out to her, "W-Wait!"
"Hm?" She paused from her foot hitting the fifth step from the bottom of the stairwell. She turned slightly to find Spencer hurrying over to her, and her head tilted curiously at him, "What's up, doc'?"
"I-I was wondering if…" he chewed on his lip anxiously. His heartbeat was vibrating loudly within his ribcage, and his palms were becoming slick from unseen sweat, "if you wanted help carrying your things up? It would make less trips and a shorter time span if you had someone else helping."
She stared at him for a moment, eyes giving him a once-over. He could almost see her mind going through the pros and cons before she smiled and nodded, "Sure, that'd be great. Thanks." She shifted the box in her arms, "How about you drop off your mail and I make some coffee, then we'll get crackin' on this? You drink coffee, right? Otherwise I could make some tea – I don't have much to offer at the moment, sorry…" She gestured to the box in her arms.
He perked up, offering her an almost-boyish grin, "Coffee is perfect."
She nodded, returning the smile. "Thankfully, the mover men were nice enough to do the heavy lifting for me and put all the furniture upstairs already," she told him as she continued ascending the stairwell. "They were taken away for another call, so, really, all we have to take is just the stuff from my car upstairs."
"That's not too bad at least." He followed her up, but his eyes landed on her backside for a moment. He quickly averted his gaze away, face flushing hotly, and asked her, "S-So… where did you move from?"
"Illinois," she replied simply. "I used to live up by Chicago, but I decided to get a change of scenery."
"Why'd you choose D.C.?" he raised an eyebrow at the back of her head. "That's quite a distance."
Her shoulders shrugged nonchalantly, "I wanted to go to Salem, Mass., or even just leave America entirely and head out to England, but a friend of mine told me about how nice Virginia was. Plus, there's a lot of publishing companies around here, and the historical landmarks here will help my writing a bunch."
"Are you a journalist?" he asked curiously.
"No," her hair swished as she shook her head. She turned to face him when they reached the top of the second-floor landing and pushed the door open with her lower back, "I write books. Nothing big, but I love to write. It's been a passion since middle school."
"Really?" he perked up at the mention. He reached his hand over her head and held the door open for her. The door was cold against his palm. She nodded her thanks as she continued ahead. "What do you write about?"
"Fantasy, mostly," she grinned, a dreamy tone in her voice. "I just love the idea of having an alternate reality, a place of my own creation."
She couldn't see him, but he was nodding in agreement behind her. When they reached her door, he noticed that she was only one door down from his own apartment on the opposite side of the hall.
"Huh… I suppose we really are neighbors," he chuckled, pointing his thumb towards the door marked with a brass 23.
"I told you," she smirked, standing in front of the dark door with a brass 26 above the peephole. He held the box for her as she fumbled with her keys, earning a satisfied click from the lock. She took the box from him, "Thanks, doc'. Just come on over when you're ready."
He nodded and turned on his heels to head over to his own apartment. The lock clicked out of place with the turn of his own key, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him from the long day at work. He went over to the wooden coffee tablet and placed his mail—along with the shuffled case file—on the surface.
He almost walked away when a certain white envelope caught his eye. He quickly seated himself on the couch and opened it, excitement filling him as he read over the contents.
My dearest Spencer…
Ͽ Ͼ
Music played as Spencer walked down the hallway with a certain giddiness radiating from his person. He noticed the new girl's door was partially ajar, and his first instinct was to place a hand on his weapon – a glock tucked under his blue-grey cardigan.
He pushed the door further open, careful to remain silent as the smell of brewing coffee entered his nostrils. Boxes were lined around a window, which revealed the wrought-iron fire escape outside it, on the wall adjacent to his left.
"Sam?" he called to her, forcing his voice to remain calm – just like the visiting neighbor he was.
The music turned off, and his anxiety rose slightly.
"In the kitch'n," her voice echoed with a southern twist over the sounds of the coffee maker. A wave of relief washed over him, and his hand fell from his weapon. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable on the couch. How much sugar do you want, doc'? Lot or a li'l?"
He perked up a little, shutting the door behind himself and walking over to the grey-colored couch. It faced a fireplace attached to the wall opposite of the window. His hand drifted over a handmade three-toned afghan – dark blue, light blue, and white – draped over the back of the couch as he sat down, "A lot, please."
"Any cream?"
"No, thank you," he replied, dark eyes wandering around the room in awe.
It was like his own apartment, of course, but it was still very different. Even in the somewhat empty room, her personality was splashing throughout it. The walls were a light beige, but the fireplace was white, matching the five-by-five small tile layout on the floor in front of it – a fifty-two-inch Emerson hanging right above the ledge of the television. A sturdy wooden rectangle of a coffee table sat between him and the fireplace, sinking heavily into the light beige carpet. Two empty, dark-wooden bookcases stood tall on the left side of the fireplace.
"Like I said earlier, it's not much," Spencer flinched at the sound of her voice, whipping his head around to find her standing right behind him. A toothy grin hooked on her lips, and a shy smile spread on his face, "but it's comfortable. It'll look better after I cast a few spells and spread a little magic." She winked, holding a steaming mug out to him.
"Thank you." His face heated a little from embarrassment. He chuckled nervously as she sat down beside him, leaning her back against the arm of the couch and pulling her knees to her chest. There was a foot of space left between them. "It's looking very nice so far. I can't wait to see the finished result."
"Neither can I." Her eyes surveying the space. He could tell she was already figuring out where she wanted to put her possessions. Her light eyes shifted to him, "I can tell that I'm gonna' like it here.
The warm mug between his palms was a white-handled pastel blue with a painted blonde girl staring at two swans sitting on a lake. He took a sip of the dark coffee, and the sweetness of it overpowered the bitterness, earning a happy sigh from the profiler. It was just how he liked it.
"Well, from the look on your face," she smiled from behind her own matching yet different mug; however, hers was a white-handled pastel green cup with the imagery of a brunette reading a book on a grassy plain. She oddly enough reminded him of a cat with the way her icy eyes sparkled with mischief, "I made the coffee to your liking?"
"It's perfect," he nodded.
"Good, I'm glad." Her eyes glinted with something he didn't quite catch before she asked him, "So, are you like a cop or something?"
He choked on his coffee, coughing a bit. From the corner of his eye, he saw that she reached out to him, assumedly to pat his back, but she retracted her hand. She must've caught on earlier that he didn't liked being touched by those unfamiliar to him.
Once his coughing resided, he looked at her concerned-filled eyes. There small frown looked strange on her usually-smiling face, so he quickly commented, "I'm okay. I'm sorry about that. You just caught me off-guard."
"Sorry," her smile started to twitch back into place. "If you don't want to answer, that's cool. I just figured I'd try to get to know my new neighbor a bit."
"No, that's perfectly fine," he chuckled, "but why would you assume I'm an officer?"
She gave him a looked that read Really? Did you really ask that? as her eyes flickered downwards to his hip before settling back on his face, "I don't think many regular people go around carrying not only a gun but case files as well."
Observant.
She was much more observant that he realized.
"C-Case files?" he stammered, eyes growing wide.
She shrugged nonchalantly, "You kind of spilled them all over me when I fell. I noticed that it had something to do with a guy from the news."
"Oh," was all he could say.
"So, I figured you were a cop at that point," she smirked. "When you walked through the door earlier, though, you looked like a teacher-type. You got the nerdy feel."
He noted that she was quick to ease the tension he felt building inside him. He shook his head, "Actually, I'm a profiler. I work for the BAU."
"The BAU?" Her grin returned, wider than before. Her eyes went bluer as they filled with excitement, from ice to a cobalt hue matching her necklace, "You work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit? That's amazing!"
"Amazing, huh?" he raised an eyebrow at her, causing the charismatic girl to suddenly fluster.
She quickly grabbed her mug, using it to shield her reddened cheeks as she took a sip. Her eyes danced between looking at him and suddenly becoming interesting in the stitching of the afghan, "Well… I used to want to be a profiler when I was in junior college."
"Use to?" he tilted his head slightly. He was curious. "What happened?"
She shrugged, "I have a passion for Psychology, for Criminology, and for trying to understand how these criminals tick – what makes them how they are… but I freeze up at the idea of having to point a gun at someone. I don't know, really. It's just a confliction." She sipped her coffee again.
"I see…" he dropped the topic.
He finished the rest of his coffee, and she finished hers. She took the mugs to the kitchen, and he heard running water as she rinsed them out. When she returned to the living room area, she offered him a smile and flicked on the light to a tall lamp behind a wall of boxes, "Ready to get this done?"
He nodded and stood up, sparing a glance at his watch. It was going on five-thirty. The room dulled as the sun started to set, casting dark shadows into the room, but the brightness of the lamp kept the room well enough lit.
They walked side-by-side down the hall towards the stairwell again, where Spencer allowed Sam to lead. She smiled her appreciation of him holding the door for her. He noticed her offering a small wave to Lucas as they headed out the front entrance.
He followed her as she led him into the parking lot and passed the handicapped spots. She pulled out her keys in front of a 2008 black Kia Spectra, and she hit a button on the remote.
Spencer watched curiously as she placed her right foot on the back bumper of the car and lifted the hatchback up. She reached up, pulling the trunk hood down a bit and fiddled with the latch under the Kia symbol.
"Sorry, she gets stuck with the trunk," Sam shrugged before she handed him a box.
"It's quite alright," he chuckled as she placed a thinner, longer box on top of the one he was already holding. It was a lot lighter despite it being longer than the length of his shoulders. "Besides, this is the least I can do for walking into you."
She waved him off as she pulled a black duffel bag out and slung it over her shoulder, "On the contrary, good sir, I walked into you. I wanted to peek over to see were my mailbox would be." She lifted a box marked in black Sharpie as FRAGILE on all sides of it – a few drawn arrows pointing upwards above the bold wording.
"Regardless," he shook his head, adjusting the weight of the boxes in his arms. They walked back to the building quietly, but she didn't seem to mind the silence.
They made about three trips before all the boxes were lined against the walls, so they had unloaded and locked up her car by six-fifteen. Spencer stayed a little longer to help her unpack, taking time to place her various novels on the bookcases. He organized them by the author's surnames. He felt her icy eyes on his back, sending a chill down his spine, but she never made a comment on his placements.
He had a feeling that she was smiling, though.
And it was contagious.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters belonging to the Criminal Minds cast. I do not own the ideas portrayed directly from any scenes in the Criminal Minds series. This is a fanfiction.