Christmas Lights
Those Christmas lights, light up the street
Maybe they'll bring her back to me.
Then all my troubles will be gone,
Oh, Christmas lights, keep shining on.
- Coldplay, 'Christmas Lights'
Emma Lange rubs the pages of her book between her thumb and forefinger. She loves the feeling of a new book, of fresh parchment; pristine and unmarked. She takes a sip of her creamy coffee and looks around the room. The charming book store/cafe in a trendy part of D.C is full and bustling, probably due to the icy rain that's falling outside. There is a large Christmas tree in the corner, although it's only November, and it makes Emma smile. She's comfortably ensconced in one of the shop's antique cushioned armchairs and across the coffee table from her is probably the last seat in the store.
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
Emma looks up. The man is tall and lean, thick golden hair resting on the curve of his neck and chocolate eyes hiding behind dark-framed glasses.
"Not at all," Emma replies, gesturing to the seat across from her.
He smiles and sits down, placing his coffee on the table between them. He looks up, his gaze catching on the cover of her newly bought book; World War II: The Home Front.
"Did you know that in World War II, 67% of fatalities were civilian?"
She smirks a little, her eyebrows rising. "Did you know that 96% of statistics are made up or misquoted?"
His brow furrows. "No, I haven't – wait. Is that a joke?"
Her grin widens. "Yes, yes it is."
"Oh, it's funny," he says with a delayed chuckle.
"I'm glad you think so," Emma laughs. "I'm Emma, Emma Lange."
"Oh. Spencer Reid," the man says, holding his hand out for her to shake. She does so, appreciating his firm grip.
"Nice to meet you, Spencer."
They lapse into a somewhat awkward silence, each looking down at their respective book. Moments later, they both look up at each other and laugh at their symmetry. The moment eases the tension and Emma sinks into her soft chair, dragging her fingers down the cover of her book before opening it. About a half hour later, Spencer downs the last of his coffee and stands.
"W-would you like a drink?" he asks, his low voice cutting through the quiet bustle of the shop.
"Oh, sure," she answers with a surprised smile. "A flat white, please."
A few minutes later, he sets the cup down in front of her, a steaming mug in his own hands.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
"So do you work around here?" Emma asks. His geek chic look has her imagining him in a minimalist-style architecture office, or maybe writing for a specialty magazine.
"Not really, I work at Quantico."
"Wow," she exclaims, "What do you do there?"
"Uh, I'm a criminal profiler," he answers, his voice rising at the last syllable as if he is asking a question.
"Wow," she says again, her eyes widening, "That must be hard work."
"Yeah, it can be," he admits. "What – ah – what do you do?"
"I work at George Washington University, and I'm doing research for a book as well."
"In?"
"German history."
"What are you looking at?"
"Nazi Germany," she answers, "And the bystander effect."
"Is your undergrad minor in psychology?"
Emma grins; "It is."
"Oh, I did a BA in psych once."
"You make it sound like you did more than one," she jokes.
"I did. I have three BAs and three doctorates."
Aware that her jaw has dropped, Emma snaps her mouth shut and asks, "In?"
"Psych, Sociology, Philosophy, Engineering, Maths, Chem," he recites.
She gives a low whistle. "Impressive. I'm surprised you're not holed up in the research lab of a university somewhere."
"That was one option," he tells her, "But, uh, I like to help people. And every day is different at the BAU."
"I bet."
"So do you teach classes at the university?'
"Yes," Emma says with a nod. "I lead a few undergrad seminars and tutorials, plus I give a lecture every now and then."
"Do you like it?"
"I love it," she responds, her eyes brightening. "The life of academia for me."
"W- what do you like about it?" he asks, curious.
"It's stimulating, challenging. I'm never just teaching when I take a class, I'm learning as well. I think at a university, everyone is a student."
"What are the students like at Washington?"
"Pretty good. A lot are doing Law or Political Science, so they see the relevance of modern history to their studies. It's pretty relaxed, apart from exam time of course. How do you unwind, after seeing the things you must see at work?"
His mouth pulls together as he thinks. "I read," he answers, gesturing to his book, "and I write articles for some journals, I play chess. We all have our ways of dealing with it. To an extent you have to compartmentalise, try to remain emotionally unattached."
Emma nods, her chin resting on her fingertips. There is a moment of silence and Emma gazes around the room. It's quietening down; the shop would probably be closing soon. Emma catches sight of the antique clock hanging from the wall. It's almost 4pm.
"Oh, shoot," she says, grabbing her handbag off the floor and stowing her new book inside. "I have to go."
Spencer smiles and stands. Emma extends her hand.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Spencer," she says, catching his eyes with hers. "Thanks for the coffee and the chat."
"Likewise," he says with a somewhat goofy smile.
Emma is out of the cafe and into the rain when she hears her name called. She turns and finds that Spencer has followed her out. She steps towards him so that he can stand under her umbrella; the rain is coming down in torrents.
"Um, would it – would it be possible for me to maybe call you sometime?" he asks.
Emma feels her face split into a wide grin.
"Sure," she answers. She opens her handbag. "Let me just get a piece of paper."
"That's okay, I'll remember it."
"Oh, if you're sure. It's 0451877343."
"Okay," he says.
"Okay." Emma grins. "Well, I'll see you later then."
"Yep."
Emma laughs and turns around, skipping down the street through the puddles down to the train station. When she turns, Spencer is still standing in the rain.
Spencer Reid is quietly sipping his sweet, sugary coffee and turning the numbers of Emma's phone number over in his head. It's been four days and he hasn't called yet. It isn't that he doesn't want to, and it certainly isn't that he's forgotten her number, he just has no idea what he'd say when she picked up the phone. Would he ask her out? Would he tell her that he'd been thinking about her since she left the coffee shop? Would he say that he is hopeless with women, that she really should just forget about him, and that he'd be terrible in a relationship anyway?
"Reid."
Spencer looks up. Morgan is standing by the conference room doorway, beckoning him over. "Come on, J.J's got a case for us." As he walks into the room, Morgan smacks him lightly upside the head. "Where's your head been at, man?"
Spencer shies away from him. "Nowhere. Are we going interstate?"
"Nah, it's local this time."
"Oh good."
As they sit down J.J stands and hands around manila folders to each agent.
"Three murders in D.C," she begins, clicking on the projector screen. "Cause of death is stabbing, mutilation is post-mortem."
"That's overkill," Prentiss remarks, gazing at the crime scene photos on the screen. "Looks personal."
"Or maybe he's trying to prove a point," Spencer comments quietly.
J.J gestures with her hand at Spencer, as if she agrees with him. "The police think these are hate crimes."
"Against?" Morgan asks.
"The three victims are Jewish."
Spencer shrugs, "Could just be who the unsub chooses to target, not necessarily a hate crime."
"There's also this," J.J continues, clicking the projector screen button.
Spencer feels his eyes widen. Emblazoned on the wall or on the floor at each crime scene is a large swastika, painted in red. But there is another dark symbol at the centre of the swastika.
"Can you zoom in, J.J? I can't make out that second symbol."
She does so, and Spencer squints.
"It looks like the symbol from Charmed," Garcia comments.
"That's what I thought, too," J.J says.
"It's an occult symbol," Spencer confirms, "Although I've never seen it attached to a swastika like that."
"The unsub also left pieces of text at the crime scene. I've put copies in your case files. The police identified them as extracts from Adolf Hitler's speeches."
"Wow, neo-Nazis in Washington," Garcia mutters under her breath.
"We'll need to analyse this text, and the symbol, find out what the unsub is trying to tell us," Hotch says.
"My German history is pretty iffy," Prentiss admits.
Morgan shrugs. "Mine too."
One by one, each pair of eyes in the room turns to Spencer, who holds his hands up in surrender. "You know, there are some things I don't know," he jokes.
Garcia scoffs.
Suddenly, Spencer thinks of dark brown hair and pretty grey eyes. "I think I know someone who could help us."
When Spencer and Morgan arrive at the history building of George Washington University, they stop at the front desk for directions.
"Associate Professor Lange is lecturing at the moment," the woman manning the desk informs them, after consulting a timetable. "Lecture theatre 103, just down the hall there."
Spencer thanks the lady and walks to the door that she has gestured to. He and Morgan file quietly into the theatre. Immediately, Emma's firm voice washes over him.
"From the Australian perspective, a strong relationship with the United States is essential," she is saying, pacing at the bottom of the theatre. Spencer looks around. She commands the attention of every student in the room. Behind her rests a map of South-East Asia and a chalkboard, reading 'American Foreign Policy; An Historical Perspective'. Emma continues: "Although Australia hasn't risked invasion since World War II, they are a country surrounded by potential issues. China is to their north, and is one of their largest economic trading partners. However, the difference in values of these two countries often causes diplomatic problems. Likewise, Indonesia is also to their direct north; the countries are separated by a small sea and also by a very large conflict in ideologies. These two nations have had a tempestuous relationship at best for the past 30 years. All in all, Australia relies on the U.S as a 'watchdog' of sorts, and in return supports the United States in many of its ventures, for example most recently in the Middle East. Okay, almost time to wrap up, any questions?"
As most students pack up and others approach Emma at the front, Morgan leans over to whisper in Spencer's ear, "Associate Professor Lange, eh? I was expecting a dusty old grandma, not a smokin' hot mama. Where did you meet this girl?"
"Um, at a coffee shop. Come on, we should go and wait for her."
"Don't hold out on me, Reid," Morgan jokes as they make their way down the pokey wooden stairs of the lecture theatre. By the time they reach the bottom, the last of the students are exiting the room. Emma is shuffling papers on her lectern.
"I thought your expertise was in German history," Spencer begins.
She looks up and though her expression hardly changes when she spots him, Spencer fancies her eyes may have brightened just a little.
"I have expertise in many areas, Dr. Reid," she replies smartly. "You never called."
"A mistake I would never make," Morgan cuts in with his easy grin. "Agent Derek Morgan."
"Emma Lange," she says with a smile. "How can I help you two gentlemen?"
"Actually, I was hoping you could help us with a case," Spencer answers.
"A case? As in a murder?" she asks, her eyes widening, making her appear youthful and innocent.
"A series of them, actually," Morgan says. "Someone has killed two Jewish men and a woman and left this symbol at the crime scenes." He hands a colour photograph over to Emma. She places a pair of black-framed glasses on her face and stares at it.
"I've never seen the swastika with the occult symbol before," Spencer admits. "Do you know what it means?"
Emma nods.
"It's a triquetra," she tells them. "It's found in ancient German paganism, and neo-paganism of course. The use of these two symbols together indicates Nazi occultism."
"Nazi occultism?" Morgan asks. "I didn't know the Nazis were occultists."
"That's because they weren't," Emma replies, her voice taking on a teacher-like tone. "It's a myth, pseudo-history, based on coincidental 'evidence,' like the fact that Hitler committed suicide on Walpurgishnacht, the ancient pagan festival. It's very problematic... it diminishes what actually happened in Nazi Germany... implies that all Germans were 'under the spell' of Hitler and the Nazis, but of course, millions of normal Germans supported the Nazis of their own free will. The person you're looking for doesn't have a very firm grasp of German history," she concludes.
"He also left extracts from some of Hitler's speeches, we were hoping you could help us analyse them," Spencer says.
"Sure. This theatre is about to be in use, though, would you mind coming to my office?"
"Not at all," Morgan answers.
She smiles and bends to pick up a large stack of papers and books.
"Oh, let me help you with that," Morgan says, jumping in to take the heavy load from Emma.
"Thanks," she replies brightly.
Spencer eyes Morgan's muscled arm and wishes, not for the first time, that he wasn't so thin.
"Come this way."
They follow her out of the lecture theatre and down an old corridor. She walks slightly ahead of them, her modest heels clacking on the linoleum floor. Morgan nudges Spencer with his arm and nods his head towards her.
"Go talk to her," he hisses quietly.
Stumbling a little on his feet, Spencer catches up with the dark-haired woman and says, "How was the rest of your weekend?"
She laughs. "It was fine, I minded my friend's kids. I did end the night covered in ice cream and sprinkles. Food fight," she tells him.
"Did you know that the average single cone ice cream will take fifty licks to finish?"
"Really?" she says with a laugh, "I'm going to try that out next time I have ice cream."
"I tried it," he informs her, "It took me fifty three licks."
She reaches the door to her office and as she unlocks it she says, "Well, how about I try it too and then we can amalgamate our field research and discover the average."
"We'd need to eat a lot of ice cream to discover the average," he tells her seriously.
She grins. "You underestimate my addiction to it. Come in, gentlemen. Sorry, it's a bit small."
It's true, Spencer reflects internally, her office is rather small. Squeezed into the small room is a desk, two consulting chairs and four bookcases. The window looks out onto a small gardened courtyard. On one of the bookcases is a framed photograph of Emma embracing a tall, dark-haired man. Their similarity in features leads Spencer to conclude that they're siblings.
Spencer turns. Both Morgan and Emma have sat down, Emma behind the desk and Morgan across from her. Spencer walks around and hands her a sheet from his case file.
"These are the extracts that were found at the scene."
When he passes her the piece of paper, their fingers touch and Spencer feels a thrill go through him. Emma places her reading glasses on her nose again and studies the paper. Spencer moves around behind her so he can read over her shoulder. Her hair smells like apples and as he bends down he sees a shiver go down her spine.
"This first one – 'Extremes must be fought by extremes. Against the infection of materialism, against the Jewish pestilence we must hold aloft a flaming ideal. And if others speak of the World and Humanity we say the Fatherland – and only the Fatherland!' – it's a bit obscure. It's from 1922, I believe, one of Hitler's Munich speeches." She looks up at Spencer. "This is right at the beginning of the Nationalist Socialist Party, before even the Beer Hall Putsch."
"Beer Hall Putsch?" Morgan asks.
"Hitler's first attempt at gaining power. It failed and he ended up in jail. This is about nationalism, about protecting his country from perceived threats."
"And the next?"
She reads aloud, her voice clear and strong. "'There is one error which cannot be remedied once men have made it, namely the failure to recognise the importance of conserving the blood and the race free from intermixture and thereby the racial aspect and character which are God's gift and God's handiwork. It is not for me to discuss the question of why Providence created different races, but rather to recognise the fact that it punishes those who disregard its work of creation.'"
"Maybe our unsub doesn't like mixed race couples," Morgan suggested.
"Unsub?" Emma asks.
"Unknown subject," Spencer answers.
She looks back down at the print out. "Well, this speech is from 1937, it's an address to the Reichstag on January 30, the anniversary of the Nazis coming to power. In these speeches Hitler tended to talk mostly about what the Nazi party had achieved for Germany. This speech is important particularly for those who claim that the Nazis were atheists... it's pretty clear here that Hitler, at least, believes that the Aryan race were chosen by God and that it was a sin to pervert it. Perhaps your, er, unsub thinks that he is doing the work of God?"
"Okay, and the last?" Spencer asks.
She only has to read the first line to recognise the extract. "Oh, this is a famous one," she tells them. "Historians who argue that the Final Solution was always decided on use this as the crutch of their argument. 'If international finance Jewry... should succeed once more in plunging the peoples into a world war, then the consequences will be... the destruction of the Jewish race.'"
"That's a pretty clear threat," Morgan comments.
"It is," she replies. "It's also one of the moments that Hitler declared himself to be a 'prophet'."
"Which links with the theory that our unsub believes he is doing God's work," Spencer says.
"And also his use of the occult symbol," Emma adds. "Be aware that if your unsub really is wanting to carry out God or Hitler's work, it might not just be Jewish people that he targets."
"Who else would he target?" Morgan asks.
"Well, the Nazis also exterminated Roma gypsies, homosexuals, political enemies, socialists, the mentally and physically handicapped..."
"Maybe Garcia should look into any unsolved cases fitting this MO," Spencer wonders aloud.
"Sounds like a good idea," says Morgan. "Alright, we should get back to Quantico. Thanks for your help, Professor Lange," he says, taking her hand to shake it.
"I'm happy to help. Let me know if you need any further assistance."
"We will," Morgan replies with a grin as he leaves the room.
"Um, well, bye," Spencer says with an awkward wave. Emma watches, bemused, as he leaves the room.
In the dimly lit corridor, Morgan is standing with his hands across his chest. "You better get back in there and ask that woman out to dinner. She's perfect for you, why didn't you call?"
"I didn't know what to say!" Spencer splutters.
"It's easy, say 'Would you like to have dinner with me?' You do want to see her again, don't you?"
"Of course," Spencer admits quietly. "She doesn't laugh at me when I say stupid things, or look at me the way you all do."
"Then go on, kid," Morgan says with a gentle push.
Spencer nods, steels himself and straightens his shoulders before pushing the door open again. Emma is seated on the edge of her desk, her hands moving through her hair and pulling it into a braid. When he re-enters she lets her hands down and her hair falls in silky waves around her face.
"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" Spencer asks firmly.
"Yes," she replies, equally as firm. "You can pick me up from here at eight. By the Christmas tree."
"Good," Spencer says. "I'll do that. See you then."
With a nod, he backs out of the room. Morgan claps him in a brotherly on the shoulder as they leave the building.
"Good job, kid."
Emma wraps her fuchsia scarf tighter around her neck and stuffs her gloved hands into her coat pocket. It's a cold night out in D.C. She skips down the front stairs of the building and into the main courtyard of George Washington University. The Christmas tree is brightly lit and Emma wanders over to it, turning her face up to the lights. This is always her favourite Christmas tree. The university always went for classic over tacky, meaning that the tree was absolutely covered in golden lights, with only a few ornaments adorning the branches.
Emma smiles and sings softly under her breath, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas..."
She flicks over her wrist to look at the time. 7:55. He'd be there any moment. Emma runs her fingers through her hair to fluff it up and pats down her coat, picking imaginary bits of fluff from it.
Suddenly, her phone rings.
"Emma speaking," she answers.
"Emma, this is Dr. – I mean, Spencer. I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to cancel dinner tonight. Two more bodies have just been found. Can we raincheck?"
Emma feels her heart plummet into her stomach in disappointment but keeps a bright smile pasted on her face, even though he can't see her.
"That's okay," she answers, "I totally understand."
"Do you? Thank you so much."
"So I guess I'll hear from you?"
"Actually, uh, we are wondering if you'd be able to help us decipher what the unsub has left this time."
"Oh, sure, I'll be on campus at 8am tomorrow."
"Uh, we sort of need your help a bit sooner than that. The unsub is escalating, you see, he's killed two today and we need to stop him before he hurts somebody else."
"Okay..." Emma says, unsure of where this is going.
"Could I pick you up and take you with me? I'm only five minutes away."
"Uh, sure. See you in a bit."
"See you soon."
Emma sighs and drops her phone back into her handbag, turning back to the tree. Only a couple of minutes later, a dark SUV with tinted windows pulls up on the main street and the lean frame of Dr. Spencer Reid folds out of it. Emma begins to walk towards him, just as he begins to jog towards her.
"Emma, I'm so sorry about this," he says, his hands spread open in front of him.
"It's okay, really," she promises, though she can't hide her disappointment entirely.
"Well, hop in," he says, opening the car door for her and ushering her inside.
Before he shuts the door, she says, "Wait, you're not taking me to the crime scene, are you?"
"No," he replies, his face softening. "To the BAU office at Quantico."
"Okay," she consents, and he gently shuts the door. In a few long strides he's at the driver's side and sliding in. There are a few minutes of silence as Spencer pulls away from the curb and the university.
"So, uh, did you have a good afternoon?" he asks eventually.
"Yeah, I did," Emma answers. "Had a faculty meeting to organise the classes for next semester. They've given me a unit to lecture on my own."
"Oh, uh, congratulations, that's great."
"Yeah, it is," Emma smiles.
"So have you always lived in D.C?"
Emma's smile widens; it looked like they were going to have their first date anyway.
"No, I grew up in Connecticut. I moved to D.C when I was fourteen to live with my brother."
"How old was he?"
"Nineteen," she answers. "But a very mature nineteen." Emma grins. "Though I still cramped his style."
"What does he do?"
"Political analyst," Emma answers, "Like every other person in D.C."
"Do you think he'll go into politics one day?"
"Maybe," she says, "But I don't think he'd be any good at it. He's too honest."
"It's nice that you're close," Spencer says, taking his eyes from the road to glance across at her. Emma is smiling softly; it is clear in her face that she is hugely fond of her older brother.
"Do you have any siblings?"
"No," Spencer says, turning on to the freeway.
"Is that lonely?"
"Most of my childhood was lonely," Spencer admits. "Not many kids want to hang around with someone whose IQ is 187."
"I bet," Emma replies. "Kids can be awful."
Spencer looks at her again, his dark eyes tracing her face. "You don't look like you were the type of kid to get bullied."
She sighs. "High school was fifteen years ago. A lot can change." She looks over at him suddenly, her eyes bright. "And is that your way of telling me you think I'm pretty?"
Even in the dark car, she can see him blush and tighten his hands on the steering wheel.
"You – you must know that you're beautiful."
Emma blushes now and catches his eye, just for a fleeting moment.
"So where did you grow up?"
"Vegas," Spencer answers.
"Wow," Emma laughs. "I bet you're good at cards."
He smirks. "I'm not bad."
"With an IQ of 187 you must be good at just about everything." She leans her head back on the headrest and closes her eyes. "I can't imagine what that must feel like... so many possibilities, so many open doors." She opens her eyes and looks at him. "You could do anything you wanted."
"Not really anything," he corrects. "Did you always know you wanted to be a history professor?"
"No," Emma answers with a laugh. "But my dad was an amateur historian and when he died I started to read his books religiously. They were sort of an escape, I guess, and a connection to him. I was always fascinated by the past, the people in it, their experiences... and so when I was offered a full ride to GW it was an easy decision."
"Your father, how did he – "
"Car accident," she answers. "When I was 9."
Spencer nods, his face pulled into a frown. "That must've been hard."
"It was," she responds, but offers no more. "How about your parents?"
"Here we are," Spencer says, making the turn into Quantico and ignoring the question. He slows down at the boom gate and shows security his badge. Soon, they've parked and after checking Emma in at the front desk, they enter the pen.
"Where is everyone?" Emma asks.
"At the crime scene. Let's go into the conference room, this way."
She nods, following him and smiling at the tinsel decorating the hallways.
"Oh, bathroom?" she says, pointing at a signed door.
"Yeah. I'll be in the conference room, second right."
"Got it."
Emma uses the facilities quickly and as she washes her hands gives herself a quick onceover. Using the pads of her fingers, she fixes her slightly smudged eyeliner. When she gets to the conference room, Spencer is bent over a laptop at large round table. There is a data projector at the front of the room and in the middle of the table is a large phone. A woman's voice is coming out of it.
"I'm sending the crime scene photos now, Reid."
Suddenly, splayed across the data projector are photos taken in gruesome detail of two dead bodies. But they aren't just dead, they are mutilated, eviscerated, slashed to pieces. The camera is focused in on every slash, every cut, every moment of terror. Emma feels her lunch rise up in her belly and rushes back to the bathroom. Luckily, she makes it to the toilet bowl before she brings it up. She retches once, twice, and then feels cool slender fingers pull her hair up away from her face.
"Are you okay?" Spencer asks gently. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realise you were behind me. You should never have seen those."
Emma nods. "I'm okay."
She stands shakily, her trembling hands finding Spencer's shoulders, which she uses to support her out of the cubicle. At the basin she splashes her face and mouth with cool water.
"Here," Spencer says, producing two minties.
"Thanks," Emma smiles, popping one into her mouth. She turns out of the bathroom and back into the conference room. The images on the projector are gone.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Spencer asks.
"Yes," Emma answers firmly. "Now that I've seen what he's doing to people... I want to do whatever I can to help you catch him. What did he leave this time?"
Spencer takes a small remote out of his pocket and clicks the projector back on. It's a photo of the crime scene, but this time it's of black words written on the wall.
Emma's eyebrows rise. "It's in German."
"Oh, that's okay, I can translate," Spencer says.
Emma laughs. "So can I. You speak German?"
He nods. "And a few others."
"Let me guess," Emma says, "Your philosophy degree would mean you speak German and French?"
"Ja."
"You can read Latin and classical Greek," she says, "But they aren't really conversational languages so you can't really speak them."
He nods again, a small smile on his face.
"And you seem like a pretty thorough guy, I'd guess you've got a Middle Eastern or Asian language down as well."
"You should be a profiler," he jokes. "When did you learn German?"
"My dad was from Bavaria," Emma answers, "I've been bilingual as long as I can remember. She moved closer to the data projector, her mind deftly translating the German words. "I know this," she says quietly.
"Wait a second," Spencer says, quickly dialling a number on the large telephone on the conference table.
"Morgan," a man answers. Emma recognises the handsome agent's voice from earlier that day.
"Morgan, I have Professor Lange here, she's looking at the crime scene photos for any insight she might have," Spencer says.
"Oh, hey teach," he says in response. "Hold up, let me get the others. Okay, you're on speaker."
Emma begins to speak, her voice taking on a teacher-like tone. "Translated, the text says, 'As for the degenerate artists, I forbid them to force their so-called experiences upon the public. If they do see fields blue, they are deranged, and should go to an asylum. If they only pretend to see them blue, they are criminals, and should go to prison. I will purge the nation of them.' It's Hitler," Emma says, "I've heard it before, but I'm not sure what speech or text it's attributed to. The Nazis considered any modern art to be 'degenerate'. They accused it of being Bolshevist and Jewish. It was confiscated, destroyed, some of the artists were even forbidden from painting because their pieces didn't portray the purity of the Aryan spirit."
"So what do you think it means?" an unfamiliar voice asks through the speakerphone.
Emma shrugs, although only Spencer can see her. "You guys are the profilers... but, it speaks to the killer's knowledge of German history."
"How so?"
"Well... Hitler was many things. A powerful orator, an anti-Semite, a racist... what a lot of people don't know is that he was also a failed artist. Some people speculate that if Hitler had only been accepted to art school, the Holocaust might never have happened."
Emma see the crime scene in her mind's eye, as if it isburnt onto her retina. Something occurrs to her.
"Um, I saw a bit of the crime scene photos before. There's a man, isn't there? How is his body positioned?"
"He's sitting at a desk facing a window," Morgan answers.
"And is there a globe sitting on the desk?"
There is a short silence.
"Yes. How did you know that?" Morgan asks.
"It's The Astronomer, a painting by Johannes Vermeer," Emma responded. "Reportedly it was Hitler's favourite painting. It was stolen by the Nazis in 1940 during the occupation of Paris."
"So we're looking at a man who thinks he's the reincarnation of Hitler?" Morgan asks.
"Perhaps," Spencer says, "And he thinks he's doing God's work by killing the people that he murders."
"Are these victims Jewish?" Emma asks.
"The man is," the same unfamiliar dark voice says, "But the woman is an artist. There's socialist literature at her desk. Professor Lange, knowing what you do about Hitler, is there anything you can predict about what he might do next?"
Emma lets out a breath of air between her teeth. "Kill himself? Adolf Hitler committed suicide with Eva Braun, his wife, as the Russians moved in to Berlin."
"Alright, so we know this guy might go for suicide by cop," Morgan says.
"Thanks Reid, Professor Lange," the dark voice says.
"No problem," Emma answers, stepping away from the desk as Spencer says a few more words to the agents on the other end of the phone.
"Okay," he says eventually, "Want me to take you home?"
"Yes, please."
It is a cold night in Virginia. Spencer shivers in his jacket as he fetches his keys from his leather satchel. When he looks up, he sees that Emma has begun to walk over to a line of dark SUVs. He whistles sharply and she turns around.
"We'll take my car."
She looks confused for a moment, but then it registers. "Ah, of course."
She catches up to him and they walk towards his car, so close that their arms touch.
"This is me," he announces when they arrive at his car.
She lets out a startled laugh. "A Volvo? It's perfect for you. I bet there are all sorts of statistics about how safe they are."
"There are a few," he admits with a smile, opening the door for her.
"Why do you like statistics so much?" she asks once he's started the car and pulled out of the car park.
Spencer shrugs. "They're black and white, no interpretation necessary."
"Not always," Emma responds. "It's pretty easy to present the data that you want, or to manipulate it. And you always have to ask where statistics come from, how they're collected etc."
"But I'm sure of the ones I know," Spencer says, "More sure of them than I am of other things."
"Like what?"
"Like... how to interact with people."
He catches her smile out of the corner of his eye.
"You seem alright with that to me."
"Not always," he says.
She nods and is silent for some time. Spencer fancies that he can hear the mechanics of her brain whirring away.
"Is it really that easy? To profile people, I mean, to figure them out," she says finally.
"Sometimes," he answers.
"What have you... what have you figured out about me?" she asks, her voice curious.
Spencer thinks for a moment and then looks at her squarely.
"Actually, I think with you I'd like to figure things out the normal way."
There is a minute of silence and then Emma takes a deep breath.
"Like I said before, my father died when I was nine. My mother... well, she didn't cope very well, to say the least. She started drinking, pretty heavily. When I was fourteen she remarried. Walter was his name."
Spencer glances at her, sensing where this is going. "You don't have to - "
"No, I want to," she replies. Her face is resolute; she is determined to share this with him. "One night, when my mother was passed out drunk on the couch, Walter tried to rape me. He didn't get far, I got away first. I went to the police and he was arrested, charged and sent to prison. But my mother..." Emma shakes her head as if she couldn't believe what she was about to say, "My mother didn't believe me, accused me of seducing him, of ruining her life. She kicked me out and I took a train to D.C, found my brother and he took me in. And that's it, that's my sordid history," she says with a bitter laugh, running her fingers through her hair.
There is a moment of silence before Spencer opens his mouth. "My father ran out my mum and I when I was just a kid. And my mother... my mother is a paranoid schizophrenic. She's in a sanatorium in Nevada."
Silence fills the car, the only sound the whizz of cars passing by on the freeway.
"Alright, enough with the pity party," Emma says suddenly. "We're young, we're attractive, you're successful and I'm getting there..."
"You think I'm attractive?" Spencer asks.
"Oh, you know you're beautiful," she says, parroting his earlier words.
"I suppose my face does have pleasing symmetry."
She laughs, her eyes glittering as she reaches down to fiddle with the radio.
"Ah, a Christmas carol!" she exclaims as the smooth melody of 'The Christmas Song' fills the car. "I love Christmas carols."
"What are you doing for Christmas?" Spencer asks.
Emma shrugs. "I don't know. My brother and I have all these traditions, but this year he's going to Georgia to meet his girlfriend's family."
"He's leaving you alone on Christmas?"
She shrugs again, "Not really his job to take care of me anymore."
"Isn't that what being a brother is about?"
"Maybe," she admits, "But it's okay. I love Christmas, nothing will ruin it. What are your plans?"
"We usually have work drinks on Christmas eve, and on Christmas day I'll be going to J.J's house, she's from work. Her son Henry is my godson."
"Oh, that sounds nice. I'm on the right here."
Spencer nods and pulls over outside a tall brownstone.
"I'll walk you up."
"You don't have to - "
"Statistics," he interrupts, tapping his temple. Emma smiles and slides out of the car.
"I'm on the second level."
They walk quietly to her house and up the creaky wooden stairs that lead to her floor.
"Well, this is me. Thanks for taking me home, Spencer."
Emma turns to her door, her keys in her hand.
"Emma?" Spencer says quietly. She turns back to him. "I was really looking forward to tonight. I'm sorry it didn't go the way we'd planned, but, uh, I'm glad I got to spend it with you anyway."
Emma smiles and her grey eyes brighten. "So am I."
Slowly, Emma takes two steps towards Spencer and leans up to give him a sweet, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. When she steps back his eyes are shut; he opens them slowly.
"Goodnight, Spencer. I'll see you soon?"
"Definitely," he replies with a grin, tripping over his feet as he backs out of the room.
She laughs and unlocks her door, leaving him with a soft, "Sweet dreams."
Emma takes a deep breath and presses the little green button on her phone. It's been four days since Spencer had taken her to Quantico and she hasn't heard from him, apart from a rather brief voicemail informing her that the FBI had apprehended the serial killer. Emma usually prefers for guys to call her, to make the moves, but she knows that Spencer is shy, and moreover she knows that she really wants to see him again, enough to swallow her pride and call.
The problem is, he isn't answering. By the fifth ring, Emma is preparing to cut her losses and try again later when a sleepy voice answers.
"Hello? This is Reid."
"Spencer? Um, it's Emma. Did I wake you up? I thought you'd be at Quantico by now."
"Oh, no, I'm on a case in L.A."
"Oh I'm so sorry Spencer," she says with a grimace, quickly doing the math. It would be 5:30 in L.A. "I'll let you get back to sleep."
"No, wait, wait, don't go," he says quickly.
"Okay."
"Um, how've you been?"
"Good."
"You're weekend?"
"Nothing special; did some Christmas shopping. You know, you should be glad you're in L.A, it's freezing here."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, they reckon it might snow even. I hope it doesn't though, it's not close enough to Christmas yet."
He laughs, and Emma feels a shiver go down her spine at the sound.
"Don't laugh," she says, "It's so magical when it snows at Christmas."
"Remind me to show you some magic tricks when I get back."
"Oh yeah? Speaking of, when do you think you'll be back in D.C?"
"Probably later this week. Do you have any plans for the weekend?"
"Actually, you know the Corcoran College of Arts?"
"I do."
"Well, they put on an exhibition of their students' final projects at the end of every semester. It's usually pretty cool, they come up with some interesting things. I was wondering if you'd like to go with me on Saturday... we could have dinner afterwards?"
"I'd love to," he answers quickly, almost speaking over the top of her. They both laugh at his enthusiasm.
"Okay. Well, call me when you get back to D.C."
"I will."
"And stay safe."
"I will."
She can hear the smile in his voice.
"Have a good day, Spencer."
"You too, Emma."
She hangs up the phone and laughs into her empty office, her wide grin making her cheeks hurt. Her phone buzzes in her hand and for a second Emma thinks it's Spencer calling her back. She doesn't let the caller ID disappoint her.
"Hello!"
"You sound way too chipper for this early in the morning," Emma's brother Michael grouches at her.
"Michael, it's 8:30."
"Exactly! Anyway, what's up?"
"Not much," Emma says with a nonchalant shrug.
"What are you doing this weekend? Want to hang out with me and Julia on Saturday? Maybe have a little Christmas cheer before she takes me down south?"
"Um, I can't this Saturday. I, uh, have a thing."
"A thing?" her brother questions. "What thing?"
"A date, actually," Emma responds a little self-righteously.
"Really? A date? Who is he, what's his name, does he have a good job?"
"His name is Spencer, he works for the FBI," Emma says patiently.
"A Fed?" Michael laughs.
"He's not your, er, typical Fed."
Michael sighs. "Em, is this another one of those things where you meet a perfectly nice man only to turn him down and break his heart a few weeks in?"
"Michael," Emma says with a similar sigh. "I don't know. I don't think so. I don't want to jinx it, but Michael... I really think he's different."
"Okay," Michael says softly. "Well, look, how about you come to the pub with Jules and me on Friday?"
"Sounds good, big brother," Emma replies.
"See you then, kiddo."
Emma hangs up and sighs deeply. Spencer wouldn't be like all the other guys, she's sure of it.
She is sure of it.
Spencer straightens his vest, takes a deep breath and knocks firmly on Emma's door. She answers almost instantly. Her dark hair is loosely curled, her makeup relaxed and her petite frame encased in a dark burgundy dress.
"Um, these are for you," he says in way of greeting, holding out a small bouquet of white daisies.
She takes them from him with a warm smile. "How did you know daises are my favourite," she asks, walking into her apartment and gesturing for him to follow. She goes into the kitchen, where he assumes she is looking for vase.
"Profiler," he answers, looking around her apartment. It's simple, as he has predicted, the only clutter books, pens and paper.
"Ah, of course. I thought you said you weren't going to profile me?"
She doesn't sound upset, in fact she sounds amused.
"Well, I was at a loss at the florist's. I've never, um, bought flowers for a girl. Desperate times," he admits.
"Well thank you," she says, coming to stop in front of him. "Let me just get my coat and we can go."
"Sure. You look pretty, by the way."
"Thanks," she grins, swinging on her jacket. "So do you. Handsome, I mean. Is that a pocket watch?" He follows her out the front door and down the stairs. "You're so geek chic."
"I'm what?" he asks, brow furrowed.
"Geek chic." Her eyes twinkle at him. "It's so hot right now; you're totally a fashion statement."
Spencer holds the door open for her as he says, "You know, I don't think anyone's ever told me they liked my fashion sense before."
"First time for everything."
They spend the evening talking about everything. They aah at the amazing pieces of the exhibition and laugh at the ones they don't understand. Over fajitas and coronas in a local Mexican restaurant, Emma shares funny stories of her time at college, while Spencer tells her what it was like to grow up a genius in Las Vegas. Emma is amazed at Spencer's seemingly endless knowledge of and spouting of facts and information, and Spencer is amazed that she actually listens, actually likes to hear what he has to say and doesn't find it dull or arrogant. She loves the way he speaks; the thoughtful pause before each time he talks, as if he is weighing his words, the uptake at the end of some sentences as if he is asking a question, or as if he's surprised by the words coming out of his own mouth. Following his words is often a challenge, and she loves every second of it.
They take a walk after dinner around the Washington landmarks that people come from all over the world to see. When Emma admits that she is cold, Spencer hesitantly puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. He walks her to her door, of course, citing safety statistics, and when she stands on her tiptoes, puts her arms around his shoulders and her lips to his he kisses her back softly, his hands going to her face.
When the kiss ends they're both smiling.
"Goodnight," Emma says softly.
"Goodnight."
The end of Emma and Spencer's next date finds Emma pressed between a wall and Spencer's lean and surprisingly hard body in the hallway of her apartment building. She's been thinking about this the whole night; his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers. Every time they'd incidentally touched throughout the evening Emma felt jolts shoot out to various regions of her body, and now that he has her like this she can hardly breathe. He is a surprisingly good kisser. He's confident, which surprises Emma, taking the lead and pushing her firmly up against the wall. Spencer kisses just how Emma likes it; not too sloppy, not too dry, just the perfect amount of heat and tongue and shivers and hands all over her body. She doesn't want this to end and she definitely wants to take this to the next level. The words 'come inside' are on the tip of Emma's tongue when Spencer's phone rings. He is so close to her that she can feel his phone vibrate against her hip. Untangling his slender fingers from her hair for just a moment, Spencer slips his hand into his pocket and the phone silences. Only a moment later, though, it rings again. Spencer repeats his action of silencing it. It rings again. Spencer growls between kisses and pulls his phone from his pocket.
"Hello," he answers shortly.
Breathing heavily, Emma rests her forehead against Spencer's chest and takes a moment to collect herself. Her hair is in disarray and her legs are trembling.
"Okay, I'll be there in 30," Spencer is saying resignedly into the phone.
He hangs up and looks at her squarely.
"Quantico?" Emma asks.
"Yeah. It's bad. I'm sorry." He brings a hand up to her cheek, tracing her skin lightly.
"That's okay," Emma says, though she doesn't really mean it. Spencer leans down and kisses her softly, though only a moment later it's turning into passionate and heated. With her hands firm on his chest Emma pushes him away to say, "The instant you land back in D.C you better come over here."
"The instant?" Spencer says with a bit of a smirk. "I think that's scientifically impossible."
"You're a genius. Make it possible."
Spencer laughs and nuzzles her neck, right behind her ear. Emma shuts her eyes and fights back a moan. "I promise," he whispers into her skin.
When she opens her eyes he's gone.
Two days later, Emma is sitting on her couch, her reading glasses perched on her nose, as she reads through an article with a highlighter and pen, searching for pertinent research. When her phone buzzes on the coffee table she reaches for it.
'Is it too late to come over? Spencer.'
Emma smiles at the message and types, 'No, I'm awake.'
'Be there in 30.'
Suddenly confronted with the idea of Spencer Reid in her apartment at 9:30 at night, Emma grows more than a little nervous. She rushes around, piling her cluttered books and papers into slightly neater stacks, packing away the dishes that are drip drying in the sink and brushing imaginary dust from her couch. In the bathroom, Emma brushes her teeth and fiddles with her hair before thoughtfully evaluating her outfit. She's wearing a white cotton nightie that's embellished with embroidery around the bust and straps. Deciding it would be weird to change back into jeans and a tshirt, Emma simply wraps her knee-length dressing gown around her and sits back down on the couch.
When the door to the brownstone finally buzzes, Emma jumps a foot and drops her highlighter in fright. She walks over to the phone by the door.
"Spencer?"
"Yeah."
"I'm buzzing you in."
He is at the door too soon for him to have done anything but take the stairs two at a time. Emma lets him in and for a brief moment they simply stare at each other, Spencer's dark eyes glancing over her face, fresh and clean of makeup, and her bare legs, while Emma takes in his dishevelled hair, loosened tie and unbuttoned cardigan.
"Hi," she says softly. "Tea?"
"Sure," he nods.
She moves to the kitchen, he moves with her.
She's stirring milk into their tea when she asks, "The case went well?"
"As well as they can go."
She nods and hands his tea over. They are at a stalemate in her small kitchen, both holding mugs of tea protectively in front of them, staring squarely at each other. She'd wonder later who made the first move, but it seems that they move together, both setting down their cups and taking one step towards each other. In such close proximity, Emma can't help but grin and he matches her smile.
"Hi," he says softly, bringing a hand to the side of her face. Her smile widens and she turns her face a little so that she can kiss his palm. Hesitantly, he lowers his head and she rises onto the balls of her feet, willing him to kiss her. He does, and the deliciousness of it makes her close her eyes and lean into him. He puts his hands on her hips, gentle at first but firmer as their kiss deepens. When they pull apart Emma opens her eyes to look into his. Spencer is staring right at her, and Emma decides that he has dizzy eyes. She falls apart in them, loses herself, loses time. They are unfathomably dark, pulling her in and trapping her up inside of him. Only his mouth is more entrancing and she looks at it now. It's pulled together, like he does sometimes.
Emma takes Spencer's hand and tugs at it, leading him into her bedroom.
"Are you sure?" he whispers when she pushes her dressing gown from her shoulders.
"Completely."
With surprising strength he catches her up in his embrace and lowers her onto the bed. They are tangled limbs, breaths and sighs mingling in the bedroom air, one being moving together. Where he starts and she begins she can't tell, but she doesn't care. The most important thing in the world at that moment is where Spencer's mouth is on her neck and what he is doing to her with his fingers. He elicits sounds from her that she didn't know she could make, and when she does the same to him Emma feels a kind of empowerment, a self-satisfaction that she hasn't experienced before. He is like a puzzle, and she takes her time putting his pieces together before she breaks them apart again, and breaks herself in the process. Afterwards, he wraps her trembling body in his arms and with her head pressed against his chest Emma decides that this might be her favourite place in the world.
Emma knocks smartly on his door, a grin already in place at the prospect of seeing him. When he opens the door, Spencer's expression matches hers and she leans up swiftly to kiss him full on the mouth.
"Hey," she says when she steps back, her arms still loosely around his waist.
"Hey," he replies, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Make yourself at home, I was just finishing off an email."
He retreats into another room as Emma unwinds her scarf from around her neck and wanders around the living room. It is lined with bookshelves and she peruses them casually, her fingertips tracing over the spines of each book.
"Wow, you have Kant in the original German," she calls out. "Have you read it?"
"A couple of times," Spencer answers.
Emma's eyes widen. "My god," she responds, "Your brain!"
"What do you mean?" Spencer's re-entered the living room, and is confused at her remark.
Emma shakes her head. "I took Philosophy 101. Kant was hard enough in English, but in German!"
He laughs and walks over to her. When he wraps her in his arms she touches her fingers to his temple.
"Your mind is amazing," she mumbles before kissing him softly. He deepens the kiss and she grasps his cardigan, pulling him back until she is between his firm body and the bookshelf behind her. She arches her back, pressing her breasts into his chest. He groans and mutters between kisses, "If we don't stop now, we'll miss the show at the ice skating rink."
"It's the same every year," Emma dismisses, tugging him over to the couch and pushing him down to sit. With her eyes on his, Emma kicks off her boots and reaches underneath her dress to pull down her leggings in one smooth move. Spencer gulps. She moves close and straddles him, kissing him deeply as her fingers make quick work of his collared shirt. His hands travel up her smooth legs and cup her buttocks. She smiles into his lips.
An hour and a bit later, Emma and Spencer finally make it to the ice skating rink. He helps her put on her hired skates and they hold onto each other as they walk slowly onto the rink.
"Did you know what ice skating originated almost 4000 years ago, according to recent studies? They used to use sharpened bones to glide around on the ice."
"No, I didn't know that," she says with a laugh. "Where?" Emma asks, prodding him for more information.
"Well, they think in Finland, although it was the Dutch who first used metal blades that would cut – wait," he stops, looking at her. "Do you really want to hear all of this?"
She spins out in front of him on the ice and rests her hands on his shoulders, skating backwards.
"Why would I ask if I didn't want to hear it?"
"To be polite?"
She shakes her head and leans in to kiss him. It almost causes them to fall, but Spencer rights them before that can happen.
"You really like hearing all this stuff," he asks her unbelievingly, his face vulnerable.
"I told you, Spencer, I love learning things."
"You don't find me arrogant? Morgan always says I shouldn't rub my intelligence in people's faces."
She's beside him again now, her face thoughtful.
"Well, everyone always wants to be the best at something in the room, right?"
Spencer nods.
"Maybe Agent Morgan is sick of always being just the best looking in the room, or the most muscled, or at least he's sick of people thinking of him like that." She rolls her eyes. "It must be hard to be that in-your-face attractive. Maybe subconsciously Agent Morgan resents the fact that he's never going to be the smartest in the room with you around."
Spencer is quiet for a moment, and then he says, "That's pretty perceptive, Emma. Maybe you should be a profiler."
She scoffs, "Yeah, except for the fact that I can't stand the sight of what people do to each other. You saw how I reacted to those photos."
"You get used to that," Spencer shrugs.
Her grasp on his arm tightens. "I don't think I'd want to get used to it."
They skate for a few moments in silence before Spencer finally asks, "So you think Morgan is good looking?"
Emma laughs and skates in front of him again, raising her eyebrows as she says, "I think what I did on the couch with you not an hour ago proves that I find you infinitely more attractive, Spencer." She skates close and kisses him, wrapping her arms around his torso. "Besides," she says when she pulls away, "You have really great bone structure."
He smirks at her.
"Anyway," she begins in the kind of voice that suggests she is about to divulge something secret, "I had a boyfriend in senior year who was that kind of attractive and he was a total asshole."
"Yeah? Was he your first boyfriend?"
"He was. My first everything, actually," she says with a pointed look. "What about you?"
"A T.A at Caltech," he admits wryly.
"Spencer Reid!" she laughs, mock-horrified. "Were you dating long?" Emma figures now is a good a time as ever to have that conversation.
He shakes his head. "A few months, then it... fizzled out I guess. I think we were both experimenting with each other."
"And since then?"
"No real girlfriends," he shrugs, "I just... no one ever fit. What about you?"
"I've had boyfriends," Emma says. "Perfectly nice boyfriends, too, nothing wrong with them. It just never felt right, I could never feel as much for them as I thought I should." She twines her fingers with his. "I guess no one ever fit."
A sharp buzzing noise rips Emma out of her dream. She'd been cocooned in sand, a warm breeze tripping over her skin and the sound of waves in the distance. Now, she comes too wrapped underneath her warm doona, her phone buzzing on her bedside table beside her. She fumbles to open the flip top.
"Hello?"
"Emma," says a rough voice at the other end. "You were asleep."
Emma sits up, her hand going to her forehead and pushing her hair back.
"Spencer? What's wrong?" She glances at the clock. It's 11:30.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he sighs.
"That's alright."
Emma lies back down on her side, the phone pressed between her ear and the pillow.
"This case is..."
"Bad?" she guesses.
"Really bad. I just wanted to hear your voice," he says softly.
"Okay," she whispers, her heart fluttering.
"Tell me about your day," he says, and she can hear a tone of resignation, of grief in his voice that she hasn't heard before and it scares her.
"Well, I had my last lecture of the year this morning. The students gave me a round of applause, which is always nice. Then, uh, I did some marking in my office that was pretty boring. I had lunch with Jasmine, she's a PhD student whose mentoring I'll be taking over next semester. I had the afternoon off so I went and got a Christmas tree, which is harder to do alone than I thought," she laughs, "The poor thing lost half of its spindles on the way up to my apartment. Usually I do that with Michael. He's leaving for Georgia tomorrow. I can't believe it's almost Christmas," she breathes. "The primary school down the road is putting on carols on Christmas Eve, I think I'll go to them. Do you want to come? You could go to your work drinks before or after."
"I'll come," he answers quietly. "Keep talking?"
Emma smiles, and talks until they both fall asleep.
It's the afternoon of Christmas Eve and Spencer is thinking about Emma and about kissing her under the Christmas lights tonight. At his desk at the BAU bullpen, he rifles through some paperwork and takes a swig of his coffee. Immediately, Spencer grimaces and spits it out; it is stone cold. Deciding he can do no work without a fresh cup, he stands and heads towards the kitchen.
Just outside the door, he hears his name.
"You know that Reid and his girl are getting pretty serious?" Garcia is saying.
"They are?" comes Morgan's response.
"Yeah, he's taking her to Christmas carols tonight."
Morgan whistles low. "You don't do holiday dates unless you're serious," he comments. "I hope Reid knows that."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he's never had a girl before. Can you imagine him with a girlfriend?"
"Well... with the right woman," Garcia answers slowly.
Reid rounds the corner and both gossiping agents look up at him, their eyes flashing surprise followed quickly by guilt.
"Hey Reid, you know we didn't mean anything - "
"I'm a genius, remember Morgan?" Spencer interrupts, his hands spread in front of him, "I know exactly what you meant."
He turns swiftly and, grabbing his coat from his desk chair, leaves the bullpen. Five minutes later he's on the road and on the way to Emma's apartment. By the time he gets there, Spencer has thought everything through over and over. Morgan is right. Spencer isn't the relationship type; he's insensitive, unromantic, awful at any type of social interaction. Emma deserves better. She's breathtaking when she smiles, and smart and funny and all the things that Spencer isn't. And worse, she's healthy, which Spencer knows he might not always be; the spectre of his mother's schizophrenia will always loom over him. Not to mention his addiction, which he hasn't even told her about yet, too afraid of the face she'll make, too ashamed. No. Spencer knows that Emma deserves someone better than him, he is just sorry that it's taken him so long to realise it.
When he arrives at her apartment she opens the door smiling, surprised to see him so early, but her grin drops when she sees his expression.
"What's wrong? You don't have a case, do you?" she asks, letting him into the apartment. She's wearing a pretty red dress and has Christmas bells attached to her earrings.
Spencer drags his hand down his face and looks away from her, saying, "I can't go with you tonight."
"Are you flying out?"
"No," he answers. "There's no case. I just – I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry."
He glances at her. Her face has fallen and her soft grey eyes are filling with tears.
"Have I... have I done something wrong?"
"No!" he exclaims. How could she ever think that? "Emma, you're perfect, but I'm not right for you. I'm not right for anybody."
"Bullshit," she says. Emma rarely curses and it makes him stare at her. Her mouth is pulled into a frown. "That's bullshit, Spencer, there's nothing wrong with you."
She takes a step towards him, her arms outstretched, and he backs away. She stops, hurt.
"You're wrong," he whispers. "I can't be in a relationship. You should be with someone better than me."
"There is no one better than you, Spencer," she says, her voice equally soft.
"I'm an addict, Emma."
Her eyes widen. "You're a what?"
"An addict." He can't face her, doesn't want to see the truth written on her face so he turns to the door. "Two years ago I was addicted to dialudid."
"Dilaudid..." she breathes. "For how long?"
"A few months."
"You've been clean since then?"
"Yes."
He expects her to ask him to leave, instead he feels her warm hand on his arm.
"Spencer, that doesn't change anything."
"Yes it does," he yells, ripping his arm out of her grip. "I can't be with you, I can't be with anyone! I'm not right, Emma, I'm not normal. I can't be romantic, I'm not good looking, I don't make jokes, I don't know how to say anything I mean. All I know is statistics and facts and what use is that to a woman like you? You deserve something better."
He looks at her and is surprised to see anger on her face.
"It's like somebody told you once that smart is all you are, that you can't be anything else, and for some reason you believed them," she says, her hands covering her eyes. She drops them and steps towards him, her fingers going to his chest. "You are so much more than that, Spencer. You're kind and sensitive and thoughtful and funny and interesting... I'm not ready to walk away from this," she admits, her face brutally earnest and raw.
For a moment his eyes soften and he feels himself draw closer to her, his body screaming to be next to hers. But then his brain kicks in and tells him it's all wrong, that he should be alone, that she deserves better. "No," he says, backing away from her. Her hands fall from his chest and hang limply at her sides.
"Please, Spencer," she says. "Please, stay." It comes to him as a whisper, a plea, a prayer, even. But he shuts down, turns towards the door of her apartment. When he walks through it he hears her sob, just once, but he doesn't look back.
The frigid air hits him when he gets outside. He feels a sting in his eyes and tells himself it's the cold, not the woman he's just left. Spencer fumbles with his keys as he gets into his car, banging his hands on the steering wheel with fury before taking a deep breath and turning the ignition. He looks to Emma's apartment building, half expecting her to be watching him from the door, but the doorway is empty. He pulls out and away from the roadside. Where to? Spencer doesn't think he could handle going back to his empty, cold apartment, while the world celebrates Christmas outside his window. Mind made, he turns his car in the direction of the quiet suburb where J.J has made her home.
It's a long drive. Between the cold, the daily commute of workers trying to get home and the last minute Christmas shoppers, it takes Spencer forty-five minutes to get across the city. It's a long forty-five minutes and it gives him too much time to think. He thinks about Emma, mostly. He thinks about what she might've done once he'd left. Would she have cried? Would she have raged angrily at him for leaving her, for ruining her Christmas? Would she have bundled up and gone to the local school's Christmas carols, despite being alone? He imagined her there, with her knitted Christmas scarf, her shining eyes reflecting the Christmas lights around her. He thinks of her last words, her plaintive, "Please, stay."
At J.J's house, he finds a park and walks up her driveway, his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his coat. Her house is brightly lit with red and green lights. A giant Christmas tree, beautifully decorated, sits just inside the front window, glittering and glistening. The curtains are open and Spencer can see J.J and Will sitting on the couch, arms wrapped around each other as they watch their son Henry play on the floor in front of them. Henry is looking up at the Christmas tree, his eyes happy and innocent. J.J is laughing, happier than he's ever seen her.
Spencer takes a long look, before he turns and walks away.
It is a cold night. Emma sits on the swing, her gloved hands wrapped around the chain and her dim eyes mindlessly gazing at the deserted playground. It is eerie at night, lit only by a distant streetlight and without the usual lively presence of children.
Emma feels a tear roll down her cheek. She sighs and wipes it away. What the hell had happened earlier? Everything had been going so well, Emma had finally felt that she was getting something right, getting the right man. And then it had all come tumbling down. It was as if a switch had been flicked inside Spencer, turning him from the man she'd come to know, love even, into someone else.
Emma sniffs and uses her legs to push off from the ground, swinging into the frigid air. She closes her eyes and leans her face against the chain of the swing. Her body flies into the darkness, back and forth, back and forth, until she slows and comes to a stop. When Emma opens her eyes again, the world is beginning to turn white.
Emma smiles through the tears in her eyes and lifts her palm to catch a snowflake. With a resolute nod, she stands and begins walking through the falling snow, back towards her home. The streets are empty and Emma imagines all the people in the houses she walks by are tucked into bed, children dreaming of Santa Claus and Christmas morning. She checks her watch; it is only seven minutes until Christmas Day.
As she rounds the corner of her street, Emma retrieves her keys from her coat pocket.
"You know, you really shouldn't be out walking alone this late."
"Spencer."
He is sitting on her front steps, his hair and shoulders covered in snow.
"Emma."
He stands and meets her at the bottom of the stairs.
"What – what are you doing here?" she asks, refusing to believe that he is there for any of the reasons that she wants.
"Shh," he whispers, wrapping Emma into his arms and kissing her deeply. She aligns her body with his, her fists clinging tightly to the front of his jacket.
"What's going on?" she begins when they pull apart, but he interrupts her again.
"I'm sorry," he says firmly, pulling her close and brushing her cheek with his own. "I love you. And when I realised it this afternoon I – I got scared. I've never felt this way about anyone. Not anyone, Emma. I love you and it terrifies me."
She shushes him, placing her fingers over his mouth before kissing him softly. "I love you too, Spencer." She lets them be together in that moment for a while before she says, "And I think it's meant to be scary. But don't worry, I'll hold your hand," she promises.
They kiss again, passionately, Emma weaving her hands through Spencer's hair and wishing she could only get closer to him somehow. There is suddenly a beeping noise and Spencer leaves her lips to look at his watch. He looks back at her, grinning.
"Merry Christmas, Emma."
She laughs, before leaning in for another kiss that warms her to her core, despite the falling snow. "Merry Christmas, Spencer."
Merry Christmas, everyone!