Overview: That time when Maeve didn't die.
A/N: I was honestly so upset when Maeve died in season 8 of CM, and not just because Reid is my favorite character who is more than deserving of a happy ending. The writers actively chose to develop his character further by killing off a smart and functional female character. It's so aggravating to see writers do this—eliminating women for the sake of a male's development. They didn't even do it well! They just made him retreat into isolation, showing the residual trauma maybe three or four times before moving on permanently. It was such a waste; as if an addiction and mother with schizophrenia wasn't enough, they had to kill his love interest instead of exploring what love—stable and alive—could have done for Reid's character. Anyway, I hope you enjoy my alternative ending, sorry for the rant :\
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"I think it's funny how we've been doing this for six months and we've never met."
She paused at my words. I sensed the tension through the cord wrapped around my nervous hands.
Gently, I thought, phrasing my question with tact. "…Do you think he knows about us?"
"As far as I can tell, he doesn't." Her words were rushed. Paranoid.
"Well, I guess I'll talk to you next Sunday." I didn't want to make her scared. I didn't want to betray her trust. It's why I hadn't talked to the team yet—only Blake knew I was interested in someone. Still, her growing fear made it harder for me to keep the secret. I knew what the rational thing to do was. But still…
"Okay, bye. Love you."
Dial tone hummed in my ear while my mind went blank. Such a simple arrangement of words, words that could have easily been an accident. A reflex.
Words had accompanied me all my life, and yet those two managed to dispel all I knew about the world, making my heart go numb.
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Words.
Those words echoed now, a cold clanging in my head as I raised my arms to show I was unarmed, helpless.
The woman I loved had a gun pointed at her neck.
I was breathing, but I couldn't hear it over the sound of my heart, eager to rip itself from my chest and save Maeve on its own.
My hands should have been shaking, but they were still. On my lips was the taste of waxy lipstick, the taste of words that should have been for Maeve. The kiss had betrayed me. My perfect lie was undone.
I don't love you. Those were the first words I'd said to her face; even now, the thought of them made it difficult to speak.
"Diane, you don't have to do this. Let me take her place."
She looked at me like one would an insect. "You would do that?" she whispered, enraged.
"Yes."
"You would die? For her?"
"Yes."
I didn't look at Maeve. All my attention was on Diane, my brain a racket of criminology techniques that probably wouldn't work. My team had surrounded us, but when the unsub has a gun, movement is constrained.
"Thomas Merton," Maeve whispered. I finally allowed myself to look at her. My heart sank at the sight of her resolve.
"Who is Thomas Merton?" Diane demanded. Tears were streaming down her face.
"He knows," Maeve leveled. I shook my head. Don't do this, I thought desperately. And yet I was hanging on to every word.
"Who is Thomas Merton? Who is he?!" Diane screeched, the gun in Maeve's throat pushing deeper, making her flinch.
"He's the one thing you can never take from us."
Maeve's voice didn't waiver—she was so brave in the face of death. My eyes filled with tears. I was completely compromised.
Diane's heavy breathing slowly settled, but her tears didn't stop. Her frantic eyes softened.
"No, he's not." She moved the gun to the side of her own head, pulling Maeve towards her.
A shot rang out. My tears fell.
Diane fell to the floor, blood dripping down her forehead. The gun in her hand skittered out of sight.
JJ stood grimly behind the body.
Maeve let out a deep breath and covered her mouth with her hands. She looked at Diane's corpse. She looked at me.
I felt myself breathe for the first time, felt my legs move forward instead of buckling as I thought they would. I didn't know if I should touch her. This was the first time I'd ever seen her face. Irrationally, erratically, my body told me to pull her close enough to make the world disappear.
I didn't have to worry for long—she held her arms out and stepped towards me, her brave face dissolving into relief. We nearly fell over from the force with which I wrapped myself around her.
"Maeve. Maeve. I love you."
She nodded her head into my chest, her shoulders shaking. Her hands at my back were balled into fists, my shirt clenched tightly between her fingers.
She was so small, so brave, so smart, so real and alive. I would never let her go.
My team—my family—drew in closer around us. I felt Morgan's hand touch me gently on the shoulder.
"Let's get you kids out of here."
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Maeve and I rode in the back of Morgan's SUV to the office—we had to debrief, and I refused to let her leave my side. I held her hand tightly in the car, her head on my shoulder. When we got to the bureau, we all headed to the meeting room. Garcia met us there, rushing us like a pink lineman.
"Oh my God, my beautiful, sweet, smart—" Her voice was muffled by the tight hug she gave both Maeve and I at the same time. "I am so relieved—that was—" her words fell short when she gave Maeve a more complete stare. "Maeve. My name is Garcia. It is a pleasure to meet you." She held out her arms for another hug and Maeve accepted, bewildered.
"Likewise," she breathed.
"JJ," I said, going for my own hug. I didn't know how to thank her. There was nothing I could give her to show her the weight of what she'd done. "Thank you. Thank you."
"Of course, Spence."
The rest of the team introduced themselves, and then Hotch spoke up.
"You two need to get home and get some rest. Reid, write your reports in the morning. We'll be heading out soon, too."
I nodded, smiling. Too much had happened, and I was ready to leave the day behind.
"It was nice to meet you all," Maeve smiled. I slid my hand in hers again, and she accepted. Everyone was beaming at us. Garcia especially.
"Goodnight," I said. "Thank you all for everything."
I turned with Maeve at my side, and we headed out of the building.
"I feel like I can't go home," she said softly. "My hands are still shaking."
I tightened my grip on her hand and looked down at her. Her brown eyes were rimmed with red, strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail framing her face.
"You could, um… come to my place. Not, you know, for anything—I could sleep on the couch—" I closed my eyes. So articulate.
Her laugh made me open them again, and put my heart at ease.
"I just don't want you to be alone right now," I whispered.
She nodded. "Let's go."
We used public transportation to get to my apartment—I didn't have a car. Instead of silence, though, the conversation fell into the usual rhythm we'd shared every Sunday on those fateful phone calls. One bus ride and I'd fallen deeper and deeper in love with her, my hand never leaving hers.
Placing my keys into the lock on my front door, my hands trembled a bit. I'd never had a girl in my apartment before—let alone one that I'd cared about.
Turning on the lights, I illuminated the several bookcases surrounding my living space from top to bottom. Maeve was immediately drawn to the shelves. I smiled.
"Can I make you some tea?" I asked, taking my shoes off and padding into the small kitchenette.
"That would be wonderful," she said. "How many different languages do you read in, Spencer?"
I put the kettle on and walked back into the living room.
"127," I said. "I read in English the least, I think."
"You think?" Maeve repeated. "That doesn't sound like a very Spencer thing to say."
I laughed nervously, looking down at her. She'd already turned her attention back to the books.
She was beautiful. I hadn't been able to notice when there'd been a gun on her neck, but now I could. I wondered if it was possible—that this woman could love me.
Maeve glanced at me. "Spencer, stop looking at me like that," she said, blushing and running her hands along a green title.
"You're beautiful," I said. She looked back at me—really looked at me.
"You have lipstick on your mouth," she said distractedly, casting her eyes downward. The sound of a gunshot rang in my head, the sound of the words I don't love you.
The teakettle began to whistle.
Frowning, I ran to turn it off, taking the tea and mugs out of the cupboard.
"Make yourself at home," I said. "You can make your tea how you like. I'm just—I'm going to take a shower," I said. And scrub my face for several minutes. "I'll get some clothes out that might fit you, if you want to change. You can use the shower, too."
Maeve nodded, and I headed for the bathroom. Alone in the shower, I couldn't stop thinking about what would have happened if JJ had been a second too late, if Diane had pulled the trigger. Everything about the present was surreal—Maeve in my apartment, Maeve's face, her fingers tracing my book titles.
By the time I exited the shower, my lips were raw. I looked in the mirror. No lipstick.
I changed into a white t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. No use dressing up at 1:42 in the morning.
In the living room, Maeve was in my leather reading chair, the light above her illuminating her long, dark lashes, cast downward at the book in her lap. It was the copy of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle book she'd given me, the one with the Thomas Merton quote on the inside cover.
I didn't want to disturb her—mug in hand, book in lap. I cleared my throat.
"Bathroom is all yours. I left some clothes, um, on the sink. If you want."
She smiled and closed the book, placing her mug on the table beside her.
"Spencer, thank you." Her way of speaking spread warmth in my heart. Everything was spilling over. Was it possible for someone to have so much happiness inside of them?
She headed to the bathroom, and in a few minutes, I heard the shower running. I made my own tea, opening the same book she'd been reading, but not seeing the words. I couldn't keep my mind from thinking of the kiss, the one I'd given Diane in a desperate attempt to trick her. It had been so, so cold. Even now I couldn't believe I thought I'd be able to lie to her convincingly. The thought of those lips left a metallic taste in my mouth.
Maeve entered the living room again, her hair wet and tangled, soaking the fabric of the shirt I'd given her. It dwarfed her, and the pj pants covered her feet. I laughed.
"Sorry I don't have anything more suitable," I said.
"I'd be surprised if you did." Standing, I abandoned the tea and the book to close the gap between us. I banged my shin on the coffee table on my way to her.
She smiled at my grimace. Nothing could ever be "smooth" when it came to Spencer Reid. For some reason I found myself cursing Morgan.
She'll love you. Alex's reassuring text jumped into my mind, and I raised my hands to cup Maeve's face. She placed her hands on my forearms and leaned towards me, and suddenly I was kissing her.
It was soft, hesitant. Two people who knew each other, but didn't know each other. Who had met for the first time months ago; who were meeting for the first time again today.
She pulled away slowly from my lips and placed her forehead on mine. "Please stay with me tonight," she whispered, her hands tightening on my arms. "I'm so tired, but I can't stop thinking about… her."
I swallowed, but nodded slightly. I removed my hands from her face and brought her into my arms again, for the second time.
"I love you," she said quietly.
My heart stuttered. "I love you, too," I breathed. Finally, the kiss, the words, they were all right. My eyes felt heavy, so heavy, and I finally understood how tired she must have been. Letting go gently, I led her to my room, trying not to trip over anything else. I kind of felt like throwing up for a moment, inviting Maeve into that personal space. It was terrifying, letting someone into your life, your head, so completely.
And yet, I was glad it was her.
I turned my bedside lamp on and walked to my side of the bed. She walked to the other. Finally, I stiffly threw the covers back and started getting into them, flushing and pretending she wasn't there. I have no idea how to do this, I thought. What would Morgan do?
Eventually, Maeve followed suit, and when we were side by side, I turned the light off.
This isn't what I want, I thought. It felt like I was on an operating table, lying stiffly, trying not to enter her personal space. Slowly, I touched her hand.
She rolled on her side to face me. I lifted my arm from her hand, and like music, she slid under it so perfectly, closing the space between us. Her head on my chest, my arm around her, chin on her hair.
In love, you didn't always have to be a Derek Morgan. It was okay to be a Spencer Reid.