Author's note:

-Thanks for the follows, favs and feedback, love you guys for those.

-If you read chapter 1 within the first 48 hours of its publication, would you mind checking it out again? I rewrote parts of it.

- Next chapter within next 2/3 days.

Disclaimers: Characters are not mine.

'Jennifer. Hi.'

A groggy, sleep-drunk voice has answered the phone.

'Hey. Did I wake you up?'

'Yes, actually… what time is it?'

I look over at the digital clock sitting on the kitchen counter, in a pool of gathering darkness as long late-afternoon shadows creep into my home. It says 16:53 in glowing red numbers.

'It's almost 5.'

'In the afternoon, right?'

I laugh, pulling my legs in and tucking them under me, snuggling in the L-corner of the couch comfortably. 'Yes, in the afternoon, Spence. What did you think?'

'I don't know…', I hear soft shuffling noises- fabric on fabric; a subtle change in the rhythm of his breathing. I imagine him sitting up, leaning back against stacked pillows. I imagine him running his fingers through his hair to get it out of his eyes, making it even messier.

'It could be 5 a.m. next morning. I didn't set any alarm before going to sleep.'

'When was that?'

'I don't know, really. I'd lied down with a book. Must have drifted off.'

I shake my head. Trust this guy to be abducted, nearly killed and rescued within the space of two days and then immediately start reading a book afterwards.

It is the next day... technically it is the same day. We arrived back in DC at the crack of dawn after making the arrests and tying everything up with local PD. The previous few hours had been hectic and harrowing enough to have everyone's nerves pretty much frayed and we were having a slow week at the office paperwork-wise, so Emily gave us the day off- provided no new case came in. So far we've been lucky.

'I'm sorry I woke you up.', I tell him. 'I'd figured you'd immediately crash after you went home, and would be all slept in by now.' That's more or less what I've done, anyway.

He is quiet for a moment. Then he says, 'Yeah, I tried that.'

I frown. 'And?'

'And I couldn't get to the mental state necessary to feel or attempt to feel rested. Even the sleep I had was probably only up to stage 2 non-REM and some REM…' his voice shifts a little at the end as he goes from a dialogue to a distracted self-diagnosing side monologue.

I have no idea what 'REM' is supposed to mean, but in normal-people speak, what he's said means 'I was too restless to fall asleep right away, and didn't sleep too well either'.

'Why are you calling, JJ?', Spencer sounds more awake now, and a note of urgent concern enters his voice. 'Has something come up?'

'Oh, no.', I assure him. 'Nothing like that. I just wanted to talk.'

A heartbeat pause. Then, 'You're checking up on me, aren't you?'

Of course he figures it out.

Coming back from Kentucky, in the jet, we didn't talk. I felt that he needed some time to himself after all that, and truth is, I did too. Fatigue was setting in as I came off the adrenaline high, and the relief of simply seeing him alive and okay was enough for then. So I squeezed his hand, looking into his eyes to let him know that I was there if he needed me, then I left him alone. That's all I had any emotional energy for.

But now I'm better, and rested, and need to make sure he's okay.

And, and there is something else. A stupid, irrational something.

I needed to hear his voice. To remind myself that he is there, to reassure myself that he can be reached with one tap on the screen of my phone, to realize and rejoice the fact that he is very much not dead, lost or gone.

I know it doesn't really make any sense. But I have learned to put trust in my primary feelings and instincts a long time ago. If it's not harmful, I don't need to worry about it being stupid.

Spencer is waiting for my answer, even though he already knows it.

'Would that upset you?', I ask instead.

'No', he says. But I hear just a fraction of hesitation before he utters the word. And I feel a pang of irritation.

Spencer, when he thought Emily was dead, came to my place for three months desperately trying to make sense of the grief and pain, weeping until it had wrung him dry. Spencer, sitting on the other side of freedom, from behind a glass barrier, cried when he saw a crayon picture of him with my sons. Spencer, when I left the BAU for a year, was crushed, and I heard from him regularly (until I had to go out to Afghanistan, that is.) He has always appreciated having me look out for him, loved me being concerned for him, wanted me by his side. Hell, he has pulled me in a hug to say thank you for exactly that less than two days ago. This sudden withdrawal that I sense confuses me, wrong-foots me. I don't understand it .I think I could understand if I saw that he was struggling but preferred to deal with it himself, like he did after Maeve was killed. But this efficient detachment- it is unnerving.

I force down the unsettling feeling. 'Then that is what I am doing. Are you okay, Spence?'

'Yes.', he replies. Fast, hard. 'I'm all right.' He pauses for a moment. Then asks, 'How is everyone? Will isn't home yet, is he?'

Not that my husband and Spencer doesn't get smoothly along and not that he doesn't ask after him whenever we talk on the phone, but this feels too much like a deliberate subject change.

I don't address it.

'No, he doesn't get off until later.'

'How are Henry and Michael? God, I haven't seen them in a while...', he stops talking. I understand why. He has walked into his own trap.

'And whose fault is that?', I say, keeping the tone light.

'I am sorry, Jennifer.', and he sounds it, too. 'I've been busy with some things lately and...'

'And also just plain unwilling to come over.'

'That's not true!'

'Really? Spence, last week when I asked you 'Are you coming over this weekend?' your quote unquote answer was- 'Did you see Garcia has a unicorn toy on her desk today? It's the fourth unicorn-themed item that she has in her room now.' And then you walked away.'

Spencer is quiet. I say softly, 'What is it? Why are you...', I want to say 'Why are you pushing me away?' but it seems too big, a wild leap, melodramatic and strange. So I end up saying 'Why are you trying to avoid coming here?'

I hear him breathing. A moment. Two. Three. I realize I don't know what I want his answer to be like.

He doesn't give one. Instead he says, 'Can I come meet your boys next weekend? And Will too?'

I am surprised at just how glad I am to hear this. 'Of course!', I say, smiling. 'Henry and Michael miss you. They're going to be really happy when I tell them.' It's true. Spencer is wonderful with kids and my boys love him to pieces.

'Okay, then. And JJ…', he trails off.

'Yes?', I prompt.

'You know I love you, right?'

Whatever I was expecting him to say, it was not this. Of course he loves me and of course I know it, but why he has decided this needs to be a throwaway out-loud statement in a random conversation is beyond me.

It takes me a second to recover from my surprise. 'Of course I know, Spence. I...'

I was going to say that I love him too, but he cuts me off.

'I think I'm getting another call. Okay if we talk later?'

'Oh, sure!', I say, startled out of my barely-formed sentence.

He says goodbye and then it's only silence.

I put the phone away. And sit quietly, thinking.

Before the whole Reid-going-to-prison nightmare thing happened, I had a premonition. It started as a nagging uncomfortable feeling that wouldn't go away. I talked to Rossi about it, he told me to focus on real problems rather than imaginary ones. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, or would be wrong soon. As it turned out, that was the truth.

Right now, I have no evidence that Spencer is not all right. He is as sharp as ever, he talks, he laughs, there is no sign of visible instability. But my gut is telling me something else.

When I was in middle school, one of my friends had myopia and got glasses for the first time. I tried them on and looked at the world through them. Everything was as it is… almost. The floor was just a little bit tilted, the walls a little bit angled, everything a little bit off center. I felt it more than I saw it; all the tiny, irregular details summing up to a disorienting sense of wrongness.

This is how it feels like with Spencer now. Everything is all right… almost. But something somewhere has changed. I have to figure out what it is.

Will comes home late- apparently their department at the MPDC is working on a messy case now. Since the evening, I have talked to Penelope and Emily on the phone, played with my sons, cooked dinner. By the time Will sits down at the kitchen counter to eat, both boys are asleep.

Will smiles as he tastes the chicken enchilada. 'Killin' it both out in the field and in the kitchen, honey. You do me proud.'

I'm sitting on a stool beside him, and I give him a smile. 'Well', I say with an exaggerated toss of my hair, 'I can't help it. I'm perfect.'

He snakes his left arm around my waist as he continues to eat with his right. 'You are, though.' He says in between bites.

I laugh. 'Right. How was your day?'

He tells me. As I listen, I feel myself relaxing. I have been home the whole day and got a lot of rest, but traces of unnamed tensions have clung to my nerves, and I only realize that now as I feel them leaving. Soft clinks of fork and knife against ceramic, the kitchen bathed in a warm yellow light, the whole apartment quiet except for Will's voice, the familiar texture and drawling patterns of it, his touch, the warmth coming off him. I feel calm, I feel lucky and thankful. Home. Family. Love. What don't I have?

Afterwards, in bed, Will pulls me close. Presses his face to mine and inhales. Kisses me softly. Then goes to sleep holding me, my back to his chest, us fitting like perfect pieces. But I slept too much in the day, and lie awake now for a long time. My thoughts wander, touching any and every place, and when they land on Spencer I think of him lying alone in his bed now, now and every night and always before.