Just a random thing that came to mind recently, inspired both by watching "God Complex" and listening to the Frank Sinatra song of the same name as the story title (lovely song, too, by the way).

It was two am.

As was often the case, Spencer Reid could not sleep. Yet for once, he was more than fine with that fact.

Rain was currently falling outside. It wasn't a heavy rain, though, more of a light shower, and Reid wasn't bothered by it, nor was it responsible for him currently being awake. He actually rather liked the rain – he hadn't seen much of it, after all, having grown up in Las Vegas. The window in his living room was currently open, and Reid chose to sit cross-legged on his couch, listening to the gentle pitter-patter of the drops falling outside. It almost sounded like a small waterfall, and he found the sound very relaxing.

Work, miraculously, wasn't keeping him up, either, for a change. Thankfully, things had been unusually quiet at his job lately. He'd breezed through all his paperwork (much to the usual chagrin of his friends). There were no write-ups to be done regarding unsubs, no case files to study, no gruesome images haunting his dreams. A rare night of freedom, which he was most certainly cherishing.

One also couldn't point to the still rather hot cup of coffee Reid was currently cradling in his hands as the reason for his bout of insomnia. The one that, whenever he drank from it, stung the slight burn already on the tip of his tongue.

No, he actually kind of strangely liked the tense sensation – he hadn't burned his tongue that badly – and he loved the feeling of warmth that spread through him as he enjoyed his drink. The rain outside, while welcome, was also chilly, and there was still that lingering crispness in the spring air.

Plus, he'd drank so much coffee over the years, inhaled so much sugar, that he sensed he'd become immune to the effect caffeine tended to have on the typical human being.

Headaches hadn't plagued him of late, either. It was so nice, so nice, to turn on a light and not have to squint. To not wear sunglasses anytime he went out into the daylight. He didn't have to come up with a multitude of excuses explaining away any of the times he pinched or rubbed his forehead anymore.

No, it seemed none of the usual culprits were guilty of keeping Reid awake this particular night. Though, then again, his actual reason did have something to do with the headaches…

The whole thing had started off so simple, so uneventful. That's what amazed Reid the most about it all.

He'd been spending months searching online, scanning articles, reading books, talking to physicians. Whatever it took to help rid him of the excruciating pain that still refused to leave his head. He was starting to become desperate in his research, too, he knew it. Reid had always been a man who'd put his faith in doctors and the usual scientific remedies, but some of those "alternative medicines" were really starting to look good to him after a while.

Then she came along. A geneticist, named Maeve.

Maeve. Such an old-fashioned name, something that wouldn't be too out of place in a novel from the 1800s. Reid liked it, though. It was lyrical, romantic. Besides, his name was a bit unusual as well, so the whole thing seemed rather appropriate.

She'd been willing to look over his brain scans, see if she could catch something all the other doctors somehow missed. Along the way, she made a pleasant comment about some article he'd written that she'd found online. He'd written it some time ago, and had completely forgotten about it, actually, until then.

She actually stopped to read it. She liked my writing. Thought I had good ideas. A small smile started at the edges of Reid's mouth as his hands tightened around the coffee cup.

He could remember exactly when their written correspondence had stopped being so professional. He'd received a letter from Maeve (and he remembers now, sitting on his couch, the strange, fluttery feeling in his stomach as he opened his mailbox, saw the envelope with her name written across it in a short, neat, orderly style). At first it contained the usual – she went through another one of the many theories about what might've been causing his headaches, pointed out spots she'd noticed in the scans that gave credence to her argument. Reid remembered breathing a sigh of relief that her latest suggestion didn't sound serious, that it was something he'd be able to easily fix, if this was indeed the cause of his ailment.

Then, towards the end of her letter, she'd written this:

"I'm really glad that so far this looks like something that's treatable. I'd hate to have you so sick that I'd lose contact with you."

Odd sentence, perhaps, to react to. But Reid found himself rereading that second sentence over and over again anyway. Even if he didn't have an eidetic memory, he'd still be able to remember that line.

The next time he wrote her back, he finished his letter by saying, "I'd hate to lose contact with you, too."

They were slowly becoming "pen pals" now, so to speak. He made obscure references to old literature, and she would tell him she laughed out loud at the references. She'd make silly jokes related to mathematical concepts in return, and he would start feeling less and less "weird" and alone.

Finally, one day, they'd agreed to actually speak to each other.

They wouldn't speak face to face, though, which Reid found himself disappointed about at first. Maeve had made a passing mention as to why in one of her letters, explaining she'd been feeling uncomfortable about somebody. She wouldn't go into much detail beyond that.

Reid was still disappointed, but that made sense. Still, though, he decided to keep an eye out about that whole thing anyway. He'd do it for anyone else he knew who might've been in danger, after all, he reasoned.

Instead, they'd agreed to talk to each other on the phone. A pay phone, no less. Reid wasn't even aware those still existed, and was a bit worried at first – what if there wasn't one nearby?

Luckily, his worries proved unfounded, and he soon found himself safely tucked into a phone booth one Sunday afternoon. He'd put his money in, dialed the necessary number. Now all that was left was the ring that was to signal her calling him back.

He waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Reid looked at his watch. It'd only been a couple minutes. Why did it feel so much longer? Why were his palms beginning to sweat? Why was he bouncing on the heels of his feet?

Finally, the noise he'd been waiting for (longing for?). "Hello?" he answered upon snatching up the phone.

Easy, Reid. Deep breath. There you go.

"Spencer?"

Reid took a moment to appreciate her voice. It sounded pleasant against his ear. Light and airy. Quiet. A bit musical, almost.

"Maeve," he'd replied, letting a slow, shy smile spread across his face. "Hi."

"Hi. Nice to finally hear your voice." He could almost picture her grinning. It was a nice image. More than nice, actually.

"Nice to hear yours, too."

And now here it was, early Monday morning, and he kept replaying her voice in his head. Reciting their phone conversation, which had been short, but sweet, to himself. Reading over one of her recent letters, being extremely careful to avoid letting a drop of his coffee fall anywhere on the words she wrote. Feeling a warmth spreading through him that he sensed had nothing to do with the drink in his hand.

It was four am now. Reid had to be to work in five hours. And yet he wasn't even close to being tired.

Maeve made plans to talk with him again next Sunday. He had a feeling that would soon become his favorite day of the week.

He couldn't wait.

As always, reviews/critiques/etc. are appreciated.