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Reid hurried along the long walkway at McCarran Airport to his gate. He wove around the crowds of people that populated the airport, trying to avoid bumping into strangers, but failing. He slipped around a couple that had hold of two young children, and their carryon luggage.
"Great idea, Bob," said the mother in the general direction of the haggard looking man in a suit and overcoat. "You just had to fly home for Christmas."
Their voices blended into the hum of the crowd that reminded him of a swarm of bees on a sweltering summer day. It rose and fell as he slipped between a grey-haired woman limping with a cane toward Gate 18 and a young man dressed in a red and green sweater, ragged jeans, and brown shoes, with a green knapsack over his shoulder.
Reid dodged right around three teenage girls that giggled when they saw him and went left toward Gate 20. Someone said something over the PA system, but it was garbled and drowned out by the crowd that moved ceaselessly like the tide in the ocean. He looked right, turned, and ran straight into a woman heading in the opposite direction.
Her purse fell, and she dropped her carry-on. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he said and handed her the bag as she bent to pick up her purse.
"No, it's my fault," she responded.
They stared at each other as people milled around them. She was young about ten years his junior with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were hazel and almond shaped in a round face. She stood about five-ten and was what some would call plump as he thought she carried around thirty pounds of extra weight, but she wore glasses like Garcia which made him happy for some strange reason.
"Um, I'll just get out of your way. Sorry."
He hurried on to the men's room. He had an hour until his flight, and he intended to sit down with a couple of nice long books after he answered the call of nature. Ten minutes later, he found one seat left, in the gate waiting area and sat down with his messenger bag and a book. Five minutes later, he gave up on reading because it was too noisy for even his famous concentration. He glanced up toward the large windows that looked out on the tarmac and saw the same woman he'd nearly mowed down standing at the window.
Her back was to him, but he surprised himself by getting to his feet and tapping her on the shoulder. She jumped, turned and blushed. "Oh, hi," she said self-consciously.
"You can have my seat if you like."
"No, I can't – "
"You'd better take it before someone else," he advised.
She smiled at him, and it lit up her face. She pushed up her gold-framed glasses with one finger and took his seat. "Oh," she sighed. "I feel like I've been on my feet all day."
"I thought so."
"Really," she said, and there was wariness in her eyes. "Have you been watching me?"
"Ah, no," he felt his face get hot. "I just mean that it's the day after Christmas and the airport's a mad house."
"Yes," she said. "Sorry, I guess flying alone has me a little jumpy. You'd think I'd be used to it – "
She trailed off and looked down at her bag. He decided to take her place looking at the planes taking off. Ten long minutes had passed before he turned to look at her because she intrigued him. She had a book, too and he smiled. It was a copy of the latest novel by Stephanie Meyers. She'd taken off her black coat, and he saw that she wore a red sweater with a white snowflake pattern, blue jeans and black boots of the kind he'd seen JJ wear in the winter time. Her blond hair fell over her shoulder, and it looked like spun gold.
Spun gold! Seriously, Spencer. You don't even know her name. Stop staring at her!
He decided to take his advice and went back to watching another 757 take off in the direction of California or Hawaii, or somewhere to the West of Nevada. He thought about his mother and his last conversation with her.
He'd entered her room at around 5 pm on Christmas Day after spending a few hours with his dad that included a gift exchange and a small dinner for two. The three of them had spent most of Christmas Eve together. He could see that his mother's worsening condition hurt his father and strangely knowing that made him want to comfort his dad in some way. William had never stopped loving Dianna, and that knowledge was like a knife to Spencer. It wasn't fair to any of them, and yet there was nothing he could do to change it.
That afternoon when he'd gone to see her, she was stuck in the past as a professor in her classroom. It didn't bother him as it had in past years. It was better that she thought him a student rather than not recognizing him at all because of her Alzheimer's. They'd spent about thirty minutes discussing Chaucer, her favorite, and then he'd said goodbye. At least they'd had a good day on Christmas Eve. He'd think about that and keep it safe in his memories for when times got bad.
His phone rang, and he smiled at the caller ID. "Hey, Garcia."
"Hey, sweet thing. How are you?"
"I'm at McCarran waiting for my flight. How are you?"
"I'm excellent. I just came from dinner with Sam's family. They're awesome."
He chuckled. "What's this, you had a good time. I thought you were freaking out at the thought of meeting his family."
"Don't throw my insecurities back in my face, gorgeous gray matter, or I won't give you a present when you get back."
"You don't need to do that Garcia."
"Yes, I do. You managed to slip away before the holidays, and avoid me – "
"I wasn't avoiding you," he squeaked.
"I have to give it to you when you return," she went on as if she didn't hear him.
"Garcia! I don't need Christmas gifts."
"Spreading Sunshine makes me happy," she argued.
He sighed. "Yes. I know it does, Penelope. I don't like a fuss."
"Hm, you just called me Penelope. What's going on besides your disdain for Christmas? Is everything okay with your mom? Oh, god that was such a dumb question, baby cakes. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he said, but tears collected in his eyes. "I went to see her yesterday, and she thought I was a student."
"Oh, no."
"It's okay! She had that delusion before her most recent diagnosis, so I'll deal with it."
"You shouldn't have to," Garcia said and made him smile at her tone that clearly said she wished she could fix it for him.
"You can't fix it, but I appreciate the thought."
"I love you, Spencer, you know that."
"Yeah, love you too. Now, go spend more time with Sam or do something fun."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, my flight doesn't leave for another half an hour, and I have three books to read before we board."
She laughed joyfully, and it made him shake his head. He thanked whatever force in the universe made it possible for him to work at the BAU and call Penelope Garcia one of his best friends. He didn't know what he'd do without her.
"Alright, I'll leave you to your reading."
"See you later, Garcia."
"Yeah, see you soon, Sweet Cheeks."
He shoved his phone into his pocket. He was beginning to wonder if he might have time for a second cup of coffee.
"Um, hey."
He turned to see the woman he'd given his seat to trying to get his attention. She pointed to the seat next to her, which was now empty. "You can sit if you want."
He did sit and gave her a little wave and smile. She grinned back and resumed reading. Despite his assertions to Garcia that he wanted to read, he found he couldn't concentrate when he pulled his book from his bag. The woman next to him smelled pleasantly of vanilla and oranges. He liked her hands, too. Her fingers were long and thin, like his own, but they reminded him of birds in flight. She didn't wear a ring.
Are you thinking about hitting on her? Good idea in the middle of a crowded airport.
Instead, a voice from the desk to his right spoke over the loudspeaker and informed them that Flight 127 was delayed for an hour due to guidance system trouble. The voice apologized and asked for their patience.
"You've got to be kidding," said the woman. "It's the day after Christmas for God's sake." She looked at him and blushed. "Sorry. I'm exhausted and not in the mood to wait."
"Me, too," he agreed inanely. Then, he said, for some unknown reason. "There's a coffee shop down the hall. Would you like to get some coffee or something to eat?"
To his great surprise, she said, "Yes. I'd love it."
"My name is Dr. Spencer Reid."
Her eyebrows went up. "My name is Chriscelia Moore."
"Shall we go?"
She walked with him in the same direction as several of the other passengers from their flight, but he didn't notice them. Her hazel eyes were more alluring than the people milling around them. He didn't hear their complaints about the delayed flight, or notice when a man leading a small child bumped into him.
They managed to find a booth toward the back of the coffee shop and order coffee. He decided to add a pastry with his coffee. Chriscelia ordered herbal tea and a slice of apple pie. "I shouldn't be eating the pie; it's bad for my diet."
He wanted to say something clever, but couldn't think of anything. He gave her a small smile, and they lapsed into an uncomfortable silence as he tried to think of something to say to this stranger across the way.
"Thanks for inviting me here," she commented after the server brought their orders.
"I – ah, I thought you'd like to pass the time away from those excruciatingly uncomfortable chairs."
She laughed. "Yes, you're right about that. I was surprised we're on the same flight."
He stared at her. "Why?"
"Oh," she said, and her face went a little pink. "Did I say that aloud? I have a bad habit of that."
"Me too."
"Oh really."
"Yes. Just ask my team. They'd be happy to tell you all about my ramblings."
"Your team?"
He sipped his coffee. "Right, I forgot I hadn't told you. I'm an FBI agent."
"I thought you're a doctor."
He almost smiled at the confusion so evident in her lovely eyes. "I have three Ph.D.'s."
"Three?"
"Yes, I'm a genius."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
He watched her carefully for any signs that she might laugh, or worse get up and leave him there. She didn't laugh or leave. She shrugged and took a bite of her pie. She chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. She took a drink of her tea and said. "So, you're a genius. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing. It's just that most people think I'm weird or a freak, or over-educated."
"I don't think so. I think you're a nice man that gave up his seat for me."
"You're welcome."
"Tell me something about you," Reid asked.
"I'm a writer."
"Have you published anything?" Reid asked excitedly. "I love to read."
"In fact, I have been published. Do you know "Chains of Destiny or The Redemption of Jared Riley?"
"No, but I've heard JJ and Emily talking about both novels. You're Christina Harris."
"Harris was my mother's maiden name and my father wanted me to name me Christina when I was born. My mother wanted to name me after her mother, Celia. That's how I got my given name. I took Christina as a pen name."
"I guess I should read them," Reid said.
"You don't have to read them just because we know each other."
"I want to; I just haven't gotten around to it yet."
She grinned at him. "It's no big deal as I said. Why don't we talk about something else?"
"If you wish, but I'm making a trip to the library as soon as I get back to DC."
"If you don't mind, may I ask why you came to Las Vegas?"
"I came to visit my mother and father for Christmas."
Something flickered in her eyes. "That's great," she said a bit absently.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"No, it's just that my mother passed away three years ago, last month, and my father died a week ago," she said flatly
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
"Thank you. My best friend told me something her father once said. He said he never felt truly alone until both his parents died."
Reid nodded his head. "My mom and dad are alive, but I can see what she meant."
"Now I know what she meant. I know that none of us get out of here alive, but now the thought of that doesn't scare me like it used to."
He ate the last mouthful of his pastry instead of commenting about his thoughts on death and the loss of everyone he cared for in the last ten years.
"Now it's my turn to ask if I said something wrong," Chriscelia wondered over her last sip of cooling tea.
"Of course, not. I was merely thinking about how much I hate to fly commercial."
"Me too. Especially this time of year."
"I'm a profiler for the FBI, and we have a jet."
"Nice."
He suddenly realized he sounded like a braggart. "I'm sorry, that was kind of arrogant to say."
She went scarlet. "I'm in first class, so…"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, I suppose."
"You are a famous writer."
She snorted and shook her head. "I'm number nine on the New York Times bestseller list. That's hardly famous."
"It's not number ten," he pointed out, and she laughed.
"You're right."
"It's all about perspective."
She giggled, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He liked making her laugh, he discovered, and suddenly it scared him to death, and he wondered how he'd wound up sitting here with her, just talking with no expectations. For the first time since he'd lost Maeve, he felt – he didn't know what he felt, but he liked it.
Then, Chriscelia looked at her watch. "Wow, it's been nearly an hour. We should get back to the gate."
He nearly sighed in frustration. How could an hour pass without him noticing the passage of time? Again, he felt something that sent chills over his back, the same chills he'd felt every time he talked to Maeve.
"Yes," he heard himself say. "I guess we should get back. Time to go home."