Today it is raining. Lightening flickers in through the sheer curtains sporadically, followed by the distant threat of thunder that reminds her that there is a world outside of Spencer's apartment. The dark skies filter in just enough light that she would be able to read if she could slip her book out from under Spencer's back where he's rolled on top of it while they were napping. As she is however, she's not too interested in fishing it out yet. She's currently content to watch the rain batter against the windows and the soft rise and fall of Spencer's chest as he sleeps.
Maeve stretched her toes out in front of her, her calves having gone numb from her cramped position smashed against him in the lazy chair. It's big enough to fit them both if she lies partially on top of him and they lie at an angle, and this is not the first time they have fallen asleep like this. She settled down once more into the blankets and rested her cheek back on Spencer's shoulder. His apartment was always chilly- an unfortunate byproduct of the building's aging drafty windows and dying furnace that only seemed to heat the basement and the lobby. Maeve didn't mind though. Spencer had an impressive collection of blankets and comforters and he never hesitated to let her steal his sweaters and socks. It gave her an excuse to make tea and him an excuse to drink coffee. It also meant that cuddling up against each other rarely got overwhelmingly hot as it tended to be at her apartment.
She felt him give a slight twitch beneath the blankets and glanced up at his face with a sense of slight foreboding. His nightmares were wicked things that drained him of energy and left him irrational on bad nights and shaking minutely on good ones. Despite his movement, when she sees his face he seems to be sleeping peacefully, his muscles relaxed and his breathing normal. It was becoming a rare sight lately to see him resting easily. The year had been hard on his team and him, and she knew that every tragedy that struck his team struck him just as hard. Despite his determination to go on and act like everything was fine and nothing affected him, she knew that he was healing, however slowly that may be.
And it was days like today that did him a whole lot of good. She could only help him so much when it came to the gruesome stress of his job, but she always tried to make herself and his apartment a sanctuary away from the strain that came with his work. He had come home last night around seven and dropped onto the bed dead to the world by eight. He's told her that due to the extent of their previous case that Hotch had ordered the whole team to stay home two days and not be back into the office before Wednesday for any reason.
That gave her two days to remind him that the world moved on outside of the realm of killers and death. Two days to throw blankets at him and race him down the apartment's staircase in an effort to beat the elevator. Two days to argue about which Poe story was best and sleep.
She takes a moment to appreciate what she's feeling. She's warm and content and she's stupidly, hopelessly in love with Spencer William Reid. She's in love with how he forgets to cut his hair for months at a time and it will grow and grow until all at once it becomes too much and he chops it all off. She's in love with how his brow will furrow when he's confused and how the world will cease to exist in his mind when he thinks too hard.
She's in love with how his bony finger's are almost always cold but his long arms are always warm. She's in love with the fact that he never matches his socks together as a pair because he believes it's bad luck and how none of his outfits are complete without his leather messenger bag. She's in love with his old green plaid robe and his faded black NASA sweatshirt and how he thinks fashion is layering as many shirts on top of each other as he can. She's in love with how his voice rises to a rushed shaking crescendo when he gets excited and how it cracks when he's surprised. She's in love with the way his eyes light up right before he dumps a textbook's worth of knowledge on your head and the spark in his eyes while he watches you process the information he's told you. She loves the smell of his cologne and the fact that he uses a two-in-one shampoo and a washcloth instead of a lufa. She's in love with his vast array of genres on his bookshelves and the tall stack of movies that range from 1920 Gangster stories to 2009 Sci-fi films.
She loves that even after a day of staring the most sadistic murderers in the eyes he can come home and still make her laugh.
She loves that when the world becomes too much and she explodes at him, he'll give her space then come in and sit silently until she's ready to talk again.
She loves that he understands her studies and is always eager to learn about what she's working on.
She loves that her father scares him but he'll still try to stand taller in front of him and shakes his hand instead of waving.
She loves that he's willing to have a coffee with her mom and never complains about visiting them.
She loves all the traits that he sees as problematic: his infoduming, the occasional aversion to touch, the accidental misses of social cues.
She loves his endless empathy and how he aims to save as many people as he can.
She loves him.