"I once handmade a girlfriend a 50 page leather bound book. It was an illustrated fairy tale about a princess and an eccentric magician." –Matthew Gray Gubler
In retrospect it was no surprise that on the eve of the first day of his first real job, a certain FBI Academy graduate and holder of three PhD's and two BA's Doctor Spencer Reid couldn't sleep. For one thing there was that beastly rain storm that seemed to drop unrelenting gallons of water onto the sagging roof of his old, yet very cozy third floor apartment. The clouds had opened up exactly forty-three minutes and ten… eleven… twelve seconds ago, rousing the boy from his already listless state. Usually he was able to will his conscious to fall through the three stages of NREM sleep quite easily and be able to allow his body's natural physiological functions to take over from there and engage in his first cycle of REM sleep.
But something about that rain was really not helping him work through those stages at all.
As another chorus of showers echoed throughout the building (forty-four minutes) Reid gave up and with a loud "harrumph" kicked the grey and blue down feather comforter off his person to be bunched down at the foot of his king size bed. Taking note over the years that he was a restless sleeper who often sprawled across any surface he happened to rest on throughout the night prompted the doctor to just buy a bigger bed and be done with it. He also felt he deserved a little something nice. Sleeping on the same twin size bed for over ten years that didn't exactly grow with his height posed some problems. Not that it was a problem or anything. You tended to forget about caring for yourself when there was a much more deserving patient at hand.
Reid's eyes focused on the small, brick fireplace that was still somehow visible from his bedroom's door frame. It was in a state of deprecation and disarray, as were most of the features in this old apartment block of his, yet that was what had exactly drawn Spencer here in the first place. There was just a certain sense of comfort exuding from the faded yellow wallpaper, the cobwebs more interested in gathering dust than meals for the long gone arachnids. Most of the paint if not all had been chipped away over time from the fireplace in question, with the more recent yet probably just as lead tinged brown paint giving way to the original dingy off white hue underneath.
He padded into the living room silently, the roaring precipitation outside and his currently mismatched footwear both allowing him to cross the floorboards without a peep of their usual creak. It was colder in the larger room where heat didn't have a chance to collect itself, so Reid threw on a grey knit cardigan that he happened to leave on the couch before originally retiring for the night. The cardigan itself had seen better days, the faint aroma of moth balls still lingering in the yarn. It had obviously been holed up in someone's closet for a long time before resurfacing in Reid's wardrobe. The sleeves had been stretched to oblivion long ago as he pulled them over his hands, the excess material stuffed into his palms as he crossed his arms bidding away the chill. He shuffled closer to the fire place in soft plaid green pajama bottoms with the flannel material also stretched and billowing near his feet, evidently having been stepped on over the years. A grey tee shirt finished his look, the orange decal across spelling out "Cal Tech" in periodic elements. The newly admitted fifteen year old Spencer thought the play on with the elements Carbon, Aluminum, Tellurium, Carbon, and Hydrogen had been clever during his first trip into the bookstore six years ago.
Reid finished his short walk to the fireplace, eyes now focused on the lone item of decoration placed upon the mantel. He was still picking pants from cardboard boxes and eating out of Styrofoam containers due to the absence of a refrigerator, yet Reid made sure to find and place the aged picture and frame first. It had that contrast in colors and faint brown blur around the edges associated with the Polaroid cameras of his youth. Young twelve year old Reid was grinning widely at the camera, his lips pulled back and the left corner of his mouth crooked for even at that age, and even now Reid didn't really know exactly how to ever smile "normal". Wearing a graduation cap much too large, with even the smallest size in robes trailing on the ground, young Reid seemed to not have a care in the world. This was mostly in fact due to his mother standing beside him, eyes and face beaming with the pride of ten mothers. Her hair had been cut short by then, the dirty blonde hue overshadowed more prominently now with salt and pepper grey. The photo was glued firmly around the edges to the popsicle-stick frame, one of the few indications Reid was ever really a kid. He had been three years, five months, and twenty-seven days old, who after finding a box of the popsicles his mother liked decided to make a present for her from the wooden remains.
She hated it of course. Well not hate per say. More that she just "thought better of his abilities", even at that young age, and told him not to bother himself with such juvenile activities. Spencer still kept it of course, nicking it from the trash later that night after his mother retired yet once again to her room. It was the first and only thing he ever actually made for her. The sentiment was still there even if it was unwanted.
He tapped the photo twice with two fingers, broken from his reverie into the past as a much louder noise seemed to reverberate throughout the walls. It had seemed the rain (forty-six minutes) had decided just water wasn't enough. Why not unleash a minor storm the night before Reid was to show up in Quantico for his first assignment as an official FBI Agent. A supervisory special agent. The fact he was a whole year younger than the minimum age requirement didn't really matter when you thought about it. He had been the poster child for "too young, too soon" his entire life.
Another boom was heard, this time sounding a great bit closer and therefore a great bit louder. Spencer spied his silver watch on the couch arm, both objects some of the few that were not actually in a box. He groaned after a quick glance, the hour hand stubbornly held over the line for 2 as the minute hand rested on 6. Reid knew he couldn't engage in an actual bout of restful sleep unless he managed to nod off before midnight. He had to wait it out until at least three in the morning now to guarantee he would wake up not in the middle of a REM cycle at his pre-determined and optimal seven-thirty am wake up time.
After establishing a map of the surrounding area the first day he moved in, twenty-two weeks and four days ago Reid knew that the walk to the Van Ness UDC Station from his building would take approximately twelve minutes. There would then be the eight stop trip to Union Station taking another twelve minutes where from Union Station he would ride the Virginia Railway Express train for four stops to arrive at the Quantico VRE Station (eight minutes). Luckily enough the building the BAU was housed in was closest to the station, so Reid had to only make a brisk four minute walk to the shuttle stop where he would ride into the actual campus itself. This with a quick elevator ride up the four floors gave Reid a total commute time of about thirty-seven minutes. This was easily managed if he wakes up at seven thirty and leaves the apartment at eight to guarantee at least twenty minutes of settling in time each day. But still, a successful REM cycle or no only netting four and a half hours of sleep wasn't exactly the best way Reid wanted to start his first day on the job.
Resigning himself to his sleep cycle's fate Reid flopped down on his couch, which in actuality was probably not more than a glorified love seat. The two brown leather cushions while large and soft were still housed in a frame that forced Reid to hang his knees over to be comfortable. As soon as he received his first pay check Reid would buy actual furniture. Maybe unpack. Spending nearly his entire day over at the FBI Academy training grounds and building for the past twenty weeks more or less allowed Reid to actually avoid unpacking the boxes that were still littered around the small space. While Reid usually shied away from mess, something about having the mess contained inside their cardboard prisons helped him justify the disarray. It wasn't hurting anyone. Except maybe the big toe on his right foot. Wiggling the digit against the bright orange and black argyle sock only caused him to wince a little. It had been a few days. And then a day before that. And a few days before that.
Having boxes around him allowed Reid to learn exactly how much pain his hallux could tolerate before serious injury. That had to be good information to have on record right?
More thunder and more rain (forty-eight minutes) prompted Reid to settle down on the couch with said knees over the right couch arm, the back of the furniture up against his right side. Having not yet bothered to unpack the mini library he always carted around with, Reid threw his crossed forearms over his eyes, the scratchy yarn itching against his closed eyelids. Having an eidetic memory proved useful in these situations where he could just mentally recite any of the thousands of books he had cataloged in his twenty one years since he had started reading. Nothing beat actually feeling the imperfections of paper against his fingertips as he trailed down page after page in lightening procession of course, but again he didn't bother to unpack just yet.
With shut eyes Spencer began to visualize his mother's 1970 edition of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. The knight, the priories, the widowed wife of Bath, the clerk, the priest, the summoner, all these characters and their stories rushed through his mind at an alarming rate. His mother often told him that fine literature was all one needed if one was compelled to loneliness. How could you ever feel alone if you had any character from any book or story at your beck and call?
As the loudest crash yet reverberated through his small apartment, this time the walls shaking, Spencer knew. After the walls stilled themselves there was but a second of peace before a low pop was heard, the wall light near his door that he left perpetually on after sunset deciding to fill Spencer's world with black.
After the pop Spencer threw his arms down on the couch, not at all amused with this sudden turn of events. The outside light that was wired into the bricks right under his window had also shut off, both confirming the entire building had been held captive by the black out as well as having his apartment also entrenched in total darkness. Spencer hated total darkness. Spencer hated bumps in the night, absence of light, and the shadows and figures a person's eyes and brains were seemingly conditioned to produce for whatever evolutionary reason. As a kid Spencer would sleep with his mother until a very late and embarrassing age that will not be disclosed, anytime there happened to be a noise outside registered loud enough and not able to be instantly recalled by his extensive auditory memory as well.
Managing to catch a hold of his breaths so as to avoid the start of a pseudo-panic attack Reid lifted his legs from the couch arm and pulled them back to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins as he tried to sit as still as possible on his spot on the couch cushion. Face down into the space between his body and legs Reid kept his eyes shut, knowing his ears would help pick up on any noise in his immediate area if he shut down at least one of his senses. He didn't need to peer through the darkness and start seeing shadows that weren't actually there.
It wasn't as if he was immobilized by fear. It was just much easier to deal with one's self when there was no light by staying as still as possible. It cut down on accidental injuries and unnecessary fear. He was just trying to prevent unnecessary fear. That's it.
Which didn't work out all that well in the long run.
As the rain had started to push fifty-four minutes three things happened.
The first was an exceptionally loud crack of thunder that managed to set the next two events into motion. The second was, as a result of the building's constant shaking due to said thunder a second crack, this time much sharper and much, much closer. Reid's ears picked up at the sound instantly, for it seemed to be coming straight from the wall itself. And of course the third occurred right after the wooden crack, where in fact the closet's back wall that was to the right of the fire place and to the left of his front door seemed to all at once explode.
Explode was probably a term used in the moment since the thunder and darkness seemed to send a person's adjective directory on edge. But yes for but a second his back closest wall seemed to explode. Since there was no door to this closet, closer in truth to a coat closet, Reid had a front row view of a giant cloud of dust encroaching onto his apartment territory. Wood splinters and panels also seemed to fall forward, the ripping of ancient wallpaper all at once presenting a scene much akin to his very own natural disaster. If a natural disaster was to be confined roughly to the shape and height of three feet and under.
Reid then realized the only reason he had managed to see all of this occurring was due to the fact his very own closet explosion had brought forth a dusty beam of much desired light.
A flashlight.
A flash and a person.
A flashlight that along with a person seemed compelled to crash through and make a three foot hole in his closet wall.
Petrified Reid could only stay frozen to his seat on the couch, eyes now locked onto the person that had fallen through a hole in his closet wall. Who was cradling the flashlight to what he could only guess was their chest as the bright beam was suddenly directed onto his face. He heard a gasp as he shut his eyes at the intrusion, no doubt his entire being now shaking as heavily as that person seemed to be huddled on the floor in front of him. Hundreds of thoughts coursed through his mind in those few seconds. For a moment Reid cursed to himself that he had left his newly received handgun and bullets by his bed in the room beyond. Not that it would have helped he was still technically not allowed to fire that gun outside FBI premises. And that he was a truthfully dreadful shot. Even with but fifty-four inches separating himself and the still mysterious mass in front of him. He could always tackle the being where they sat but then again they could have a gun or knife or rope or rock or ripped closet wood panel to retaliate with. He could yell and risk setting this person off to still attack him with said various murder weapons. He could try and leap over the couch and make a bolt for the bathroom in his room and lock the door. But that would mean maneuvering through a box filled environment in the dark and still find a way to lock himself to safety, all without his glasses that he just not remembered were on the other piece of lone furniture in his apartment, the dark wood night stand.
Or he could talk to them? Studies have shown that greeting a possible assailant with an attitude other than fear and instead calm control can throw off many a would-be murderer. Still lost in thought the figure began to shift, at which Spencer just defaulted to once again, remaining perfectly still.
Miraculously enough, the building also seemed to regain its electricity right at that moment. Another visual assault forced Spencer to shut his eyes for but two seconds, before slowly opening them to finally reveal who exactly crashed through his closet.
The flashlight rattling at a far slower rate than before against their knees with the return of the light, the person's face slowly pulled itself up from hiding in the space between knees and chest. Almost comical the way both Spencer and the person seemed to mirror each other, circumstances aside.
Yet as the figure rose to sit up from the spot on the floor Spencer only grew less and less sure. The pit in his stomach felt straight through his pajama pant covered feet, past the brown leather cushions, and through the wooden floorboards below probably into whoever was his downstairs neighbor below. At this moment perhaps having a murderer or monster or ghost or rabid dog or even a live bomb might have been more welcome to crash through his closet wall. Because sitting up in front of a certain twenty-two years and nine days old Spencer Reid who was set to start his first day ever at the BAU in Quantico Virginia in four hours, forty-five minutes, and thirteen, fourteen seconds was a girl.
A girl who looked him straight in the eye barked a short, nervous laugh. A girl who dropped the flashlight and moved both her thumbs over the bottom knuckle of both of her middle fingers and cracked. A girl who took a deep breath and looked square into his murky, hazel eyes and actually raised her right hand to give a quick wave. A girl who spoke clearly and in an entirely calm and lucid tone as if she hadn't really, actually, literally, crashed into his life. A girl who said-
"Hi. I'm Vera."