Hi, everyone! Just wanted to let you know that I'm currently revising/editing some chapters that I felt were not "good". Don't worry, the plot will stay the same. But I felt these earlier chapters weren't my best because I didn't spend a lot of time editing, like I do now. Plus I didn't have a Beta then, either. (Annber03, you rock!) I know this unusual, but I want my readers to have the best experience possible while reading. The things I added to this chapter were only to make it more believable and accurate.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Criminal Minds.

Warning: Contains slight spoilers for 6X16 "Coda".

Hope you enjoy this revised version!

Thursday, September 12, 2013:

Spencer exited the elevator and headed in the direction of the clinic. The door was ajar, but he couldn't see anyone inside. He stood there for a moment, debating if he should go in or not. He raised his knuckle and rapped on the door.

"H-Hello? Is anybody in here?"

At first, he didn't hear anything, but then he heard a muffled sound that sounded like someone calling for help, followed by a loud clatter. His profiler instincts kicked in and he rushed in the room, automatically reaching for a gun that wasn't there. He noticed a closet door wide open and a tiny woman standing on what appeared to be a wooden box. Is that…the girl from the elevator? A small white basket was overturned, various handheld instruments littering the floor. Spencer breathed a sigh of relief. She must have been trying to reach the instruments and knocked them over. The woman looked at him with complete and utter embarrassment, her cheeks turning bright red.

"Are you okay?" Spencer asked. To his surprise, the woman burst into laughter. "What's so funny?" he asked, confused.

"Give—give me a minute." She was practically cackling. After a few seconds, she stopped laughing. "So sorry."

"Are you okay?" he asked again, furrowing his eyebrows. This woman confused him.

"Yeah. I'm so sorry. I'm such a klutz," she drawled in her Southern accent. She stared down at the instruments that littered the floor. "What a mess!" She carefully hopped down off the wooden box, trying not to disturb any more instruments. She began to gather up shakers, bells, and maracas into the basket. Spencer rushed over to help.

"What were you trying to reach?" Spencer asked.

"I needed some shakers," she stated.

"And you thought you could reach them standing on this cajón?" Spencer asked, pointing to what he had originally thought was a wooden box.

"Excuse me?"

"A cajón, also known as a Cajun Drum. The cajón was developed in coastal Perú during the periods of slavery in Perú. It is associated with several Afro-Peruvian genres. The instrument reached a peak in popularity by 1850, and by the end of the 19th century, cajón players were experimenting with the design of the instrument by bending some of the planks in the cajón's body to alter the instrument's patterns of sound vibration," he stated. The girl stared at him, one corner of her mouth upturning into a slight smirk.

"You sound like a dictionary," she replied, crinkling her nose. "How do you know all that?"

"I seem to know a lot of useless information," he frowned.

"That's not useless. I was just surprised that you know what a cajón is. Not a lot of people do. And even though I've studied music, I didn't know that the drum originated in Perú. I feel like I should study up on my instrument origins now." She beamed at him. "Can you help me put this back?" She pointed to the basket of handheld instruments. He nodded.

"Is Gene here today?" he asked, after placing the basket on the shelf.

"No, he's in meetings all day. Didn't you see the sign on the door?"

"There wasn't a sign on the door."

"What?!" She whined, making the word almost two syllables long. He noticed her accent became more pronounced when she was excited or flustered. "I swore I put one up there."

"There's nothing there." She walked over to the door, and sure enough, there was nothing posted.

"Well, that sucks. So much for being organized today!" She threw her arms up in the air dramatically and sighed.

"I was supposed to meet Gene for a session today, but since he's not here, I'll, um, just leave," Reid said, moving towards the door.

"Luckily for you, I'm supposed to cover for Gene today. I have all his charts and session plans over there." She pointed to a neat stack of folders on the desk. "Let me guess. You're Dr. Reid, correct?"

"Yes."

"I'm Teagan Wellers, by the way. Nice to finally properly meet you, Dr. Reid." She stuck out her hand. So she's the other music therapist on staff. How did I not figure that out earlier? He shook her hand tentatively. Her tiny hand felt very warm in his.

"Nice to finally meet you too." She smiled again before walking over to the stack of folders on the desk and shuffling them until she found his file.

"Okay. So it says here you have migraines, but they have no known cause. The doctors think they may be psychosomatic, but Gene thinks they could be stress related," she stated, furrowing her brow.

"Yes."

"Gene also has listed that you worked on guided imagery for your first session," she said, nodding her head slightly, as if she were in agreement.

"Yes."

"Okay. Well, Gene would like to have you try out the Somatron today for your session."

"What's that?" he asked curiously.

"You'll see," she replied, smirking slightly. "This way." She then led him to a room that contained a chair and a sound system. "Here is the Somatron! Ta-da!"

"It looks like a recliner," Spencer stated. This is supposed to help me?

"Technically, it is, but it will vibrate to music. The vibrations are supposed to be soothing. It's hard to explain in theory. You'll just have to experience it. You can sit down now if you'd like, while I get this hooked up." She smiled at him again, before turning to plug in various chords into the sound system. She grabbed a CD from a box of cases on the floor.

"Can I pick the music?" he asked.

"Sure!" she answered. "What would you like?"

"Can you play Beethoven? Specifically, the "Moonlight Sonata"?"

"I think we have that," she stated with yet another grin. She fished in the case before finding the CD. "Ah. And all three movements. Good. You ready?" She began to put the CD in the player.

He nodded and the opening notes began playing. The chair began to vibrate beneath him. It wasn't like a massage chair, which Garcia had forced him to try out at the mall once. No, the vibrations occurred with the rhythm of the music. I've never experienced anything like this in my life. This is so soothing. And finally some music I enjoy.

He had been teaching himself to play the piano since the case with Sammy Sparks. Spencer had never played any instrument before then, but it felt almost as though it came naturally to him. After the case ended, he purchased an electronic keyboard. He didn't practice as much as he would have liked, but when he had the time to do so, he always enjoyed playing. He closed his eyes as the vibrations began to relax him.

"Hey, Dr. Reid! Did you go to sleep on me?" Spencer awoke with a jolt. Teagan was standing at the door with a stack of papers in her hand.

"I-I suppose I did."

"No problem. It's supposed to relax you. And I guess it did," she giggled. "I have a survey for you to fill out." She handed him a sheet of paper. "It's an assessment to see what your stress levels were like before you came and how they are now." She handed him a pen.

"Thanks." He took the pen and began filling out the survey before furrowing his brow in slight confusion. "Um, I don't know what my stress levels were when I came in."

"Just put non-applicable then." He nodded and continued to fill out the survey.

The sessions really seemed to help. So far, Spencer hadn't had his usual migraines. But he honestly couldn't tell if the therapy was responsible for the lack of them. Sometimes he could go months without one. Other times, he could go days. However, when he slept last night, he didn't dream. He didn't dream of Maeve and he didn't have his usual recurring nightmares. He just slept, and had awoken actually feeling…refreshed. He couldn't remember a night where he slept so long and so peacefully without any interruptions.

It felt weird not having that dream about Maeve again, though. And it felt odd for him to long for it. Dreams and memories were all he had left of her. Thinking of her brought that deep, sweet relief that he'd confessed to feeling when talking with Rossi months ago.

For the first few months after her death, he couldn't sleep because he dreamed of her. He was scared of what would happen if he'd let himself be lost to his dreams, yet at the same time, that was the only way he could still hope to see her. I had a chance at true happiness. He frowned.

"You okay?" Teagan asked, looking concerned. "You look upset."

"Um, no. I'm fine," Spencer he said quickly. He hurriedly filled out the rest of the survey. "Are we done?"

"Pretty much. You just need to make another appointment before you go," she stated, walking over to the computer to open up Gene's appointment spreadsheet. "He has an opening on Monday at eight o'clock. Can you make it then?"

"I should be able to," he answered.

"Okay, so just put you down for eight then?" Teagan asked.

"Sure." She nodded before typing his name into the spreadsheet.

"There you go. Now I think you're done!"

"Okay. Thank you." He grabbed his messenger bag from the floor.

"You're welcome, Dr. Reid."

"It's Spencer."

"You're welcome, Spencer. Have a great day," she said, smiling at him while she showed him the door. He left the room quickly, without even looking at her. Teagan watched him curiously as he headed in a rush towards the elevator. Wow, what's gotten into him?

Teagan sat at her desk typing up an assessment on another client. Gene has to come back tomorrow or I'm going to freak out. I can't handle all of his clients and my clients at the same time. It's simply too much! I need to relax. Calm down. Try and focus, think of pleasant things…McDuffie...coffee...Spencer's eyes are about the color of coffee…

A smile spread across her face as her thoughts turned to Spencer. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about him since his session earlier. I'm so glad I finally got his name. He's definitely handsome. And he seems so nice. But I shouldn't be attracted to him! He's a client. Not my client, necessarily… She frowned. He seemed really worried when he left. I wonder what that was all about.

She'd glanced over his file again, observing the note that said his mother had schizophrenia. But he's well past the age of onset in males for schizophrenia. Is that why all of the doctors think his migraines are psychosomatic? The file also said he was a profiler for the FBI. Since she had no idea what that was, she Googled it on her lunch break. After she saw what the job required, she had to agree with Gene. His migraines have to be stress-related. I'll make sure to tell Gene to continue doing stress-relieving techniques with him. Maybe then he'll get some relief.

Spencer sat at his desk in the bullpen working on paperwork. Blake sat across from him at her desk, finishing up the case file on her desk. He reached over and took a sip of the tea he had purchased downstairs. Yuck! He crinkled his nose in distaste. He missed drinking coffee. He practically lived off of it, but Maeve had suggested that might be a trigger for his migraines, and to swap to green tea or chamomile tea. He drank it, but it wasn't what he preferred. However, she had been glad to know that he had put her suggestions into action.

"Is drinking the tea helping?" she asked.

"Somewhat," he answered. "I still have them, but they're not as frequent or severe."

"That's good, at least. You might want to try taking equal doses of Magnesium and Riboflavin in addition to sporadic shots of E2 to see if that gives you more relief."

"Do you think that'll help?"

"I think so," she answered, a hopeful tone to her voice. Even though he had never seen her face, he knew she was someone he could trust.

After Maeve's death, he went back to coffee, drinking enough to keep him up at night so he wouldn't have to sleep. As a result of either the extreme sleep deprivation or caffeine, he didn't know which; he had the worst migraine he had ever experienced. He didn't remember much, but the pain had been so intense. It felt like someone was beating him over the head with a sledgehammer. And the nausea. He remembered vomiting violently into the toilet before blacking out, hitting his head against the lip of the tub. He awoke on the bathroom floor hours later, covered in vomit and blood from his head wound. The migraine had passed fortunately, but the spot he hit when blacking out had throbbed painfully for days afterward. He hadn't had coffee since, although there were days when he still craved it.

He took another sip of tea and returned to his paperwork. At least the headaches are getting better. And I do feel more relaxed. Perhaps the therapy's working? It's certainly…interesting. So far.

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